


The Center Gambit

by stillwaterseas (phoenixflight)



Series: Center Gambit [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Themes, Kings Rising canon divergence, M/M, canon typical laurent being prickly and damen being in love, canon typical politically fuzzy shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas
Summary: Beginning at the end of Prince's Gambit - Damen is about to ride for Charcy with his new Akielon allies when they receive word that Prince Laurent has been captured at Fortaine. He undertakes a rescue mission that quickly turns into a desperate gambit to trap the Regent using Laurent as bait.or, Laurent works very hard to control everything and repress his Feelings TM, while Damen thinks he should justlet Damen help himrelax





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began loosely inspired by Josselin's canon-divergent works Ravenel and Fortaine (neither of which were long enough.... cough). It took on a life of its own and is shaping up to be about 30k words long, mostly complete. I will aim to update regularly.  
> I didn't actually set out to make it a more coherent or politically sensical version of KR so while it doesn't contain certain elements of BS I'm sure it contains others... but really, what is a sandbox for if not for playing?

Three days, he’d promised Laurent. Three more days at Ravenel. Three more days as just Damen, Damen the soldier, the freed slave. His longing for Ios and his rightful crown smoldered constantly in his chest, at odds with the bright, painful joy he felt when Laurent smiled at him. _To gain everything and lose everything in the space of a moment._.. _the fate of all princes destined for the throne_. Laurent, of course, had been more right than he knew.

They’d sat up through the night, bent over maps until Damen’s shoulder’s ached, beating out an audacious, desperate plan. It relied on precise timing, and on a mysterious group of reinforcements that Laurent had refused to tell Damen anything about – insisting only that they would meet him at Ravenel after Laurent had left. With luck, between them they could pincer the Regent’s force at Charcy and emerge victorious.

The morning Laurent rode out at the head of his troops, sun blazing in his hair, Damen felt the weight of his own name like a stone in his throat.

“Take care of my fort, Commander,” Laurent said, gaze perfectly level.

They clasped hands in the courtyard, before their gathered men. Damen desperately wanted to tug him forward, embrace him, kiss him, _something_ , but instead he said, “We have a rendezvous in two days. Don’t be late.”

 

Nikandros. _Nikandros_ was Laurent’s reinforcement. Internally, Damen cursed the Prince for not warning him – but then, Laurent didn’t know, had no idea he had just orchestrated the collision of Damen’s lives. Jord was right - there had only ever been one of him.

“ _Damianos_.”

His oldest friend knelt in the dirt before him, and all around his name ran like wind through trees. _Prince Damianos._ He could sense the alarm and anger rising from the Veretians, as they realized who he was. _Prince-killer._

A thrown rock rattled on the steps. Nikandros surged to his feet, drawing his sword. Behind him, Damen felt the Veretians tense, reaching for their own weapons. He flung up a hand. “Hold!” And again in Veretian, turning, “ _Hold_.” Even as he spoke he knew it would not be enough. He had underestimated the hatred Veretians held for Damianos – for him. His control was slipping, there would be battle within the walls of Ravenel in minutes if he didn’t act.

He opened his mouth, about to order Nikandros to take the fort.

A commotion at the gate broke the tension of the moment. Everyone turned.

A man on horseback clattered between the ranks of Akielons and reigned up sharply. Damen vaguely recognized him – one of the men who had gone with Laurent. His horse was lathered and staggering, the foam at its mouth pink with blood. Damen’s first thought, calm and distant, was that Laurent would have the man flogged for misusing a horse like that. And then with cold dread growing in his stomach, he took in the blood on the man’s jacket and the stiff way he held his left side.

The injured soldier looked around wild-eyed at the red-clad troops thronging the courtyard. When he spotted Damen on the steps, he called out, “Commander! The Prince has been taken.”

A gasp rose from the Veretians. Most of the Akielons couldn’t understand, but they shifted uneasily at the reaction. Nikandros was frowning.

“Taken? By whom? Where?” Damen’s voice sounded odd to his own ears, too calm for the thundering of his heart.

The soldier swallowed, voice rasping. “Guion’s men. Slaughtered our whole company, and took the Prince. If he’s alive, he’s at Fortaine.”

The shock of the news had momentarily distracted the worried occupants of Ravenel from the Akielon invasion. Damen lifted his voice, speaking in Veretian. “Friends of Vere, many of you know that I have fought beside Prince Laurent for the last two months. What you may not know is that I have made an agreement with the Prince – an alliance if you will.” He tried not to look at Nikandros’ face growing more bemused. “I agreed to help him prevent war between our nations and I keep my word. It is true that I am Damianos of Akielos-” He heard the hissing anger rise again, and wished he had Laurent’s way with words. He would never have started a speech like this without a dozen contingency plans. Damen raised his voice. “If you do not believe my word, believe this: I cannot afford war in Akielos, no more than Laurent can afford it here. Our alliance stands. If it is in my power, or that of my army, I will free our brother of Vere from Fortaine.”

It worked. Barely. In the end it was Guymar, one of Touars’ officer and therefore known to the men of the fort, who held the peace.

Afterward, when the Akielons were camped uneasily in the courtyard and the residents of the fort ushered away by the Veretian guards, Damen stopped Guymar in the hall. “Thank you.”

Guymar flinched away from his outstretched hand. “Don’t thank me. If I could, I’d kill you. But if there’s even a chance that you can save the Prince, then I am your man.”

Nikandros bristled at this disrespect, but Damen held up a hand.

“You allow Veretians to speak to you like that?” he seethed under his breath as they walked away.

“Speak to me like you just did, kyros?” Damen asked, hearing an edge of sarcasm in his own voice that was more Laurent than himself.

Nikandros ducked his head. “Apologies, Exalted.”

“Don’t apologize, Nikandros,” Damen sighed. “The last time you spoke your mind to me, I didn’t listen, and I should have.”

They had reached the door to the room Damen had shared with Laurent, and halted. Lazar was leaning against the wall where two guards should have been on duty. He straightened, and saluted to Damen, deliberately sloppy. “I took the liberty of relieving the two men on duty, your Highness,” he drawled, using the Veretian honorific. “Since they were... disconcerted by the news of your true identity.”

Damen nodded. It had been insolent but smart, and now was not the time to reprimand initiative. “Have someone find Jord and send him here.”

With the door shut behind them, Damen pressed the palms of both hands against his eyes.

“Damen...” Nikandros said softly, “My king.”

King. The word settled on his shoulders, heavy as his father’s death. King Damianos.

Before him, Nikandros knelt. “Exalted. I thought you were dead,” he whispered, eyes on the marble floor. “I mourned you.”

“Rise, old friend.” Reaching out, Damen tugged Nikandros to his feet and embraced him. The warm, solid shape of his body was familiar, and so was his smell, of oiled leather and sweat. For a moment, Damen closed his eyes and breathed in, imagining himself back home in Ios or walking in the gardens of Delpha, any one of a thousand times he and Nikandros had embraced as friends, as brothers in arms. Before they had been king and subject.

Then Nikandros drew back. “Damen, what happened to you? Kastor said it was your guards, but...”

“You were right. You were right all along about him.”

Nikandros just nodded, not looking surprised. “I have...” He hesitated, then drew a folded piece of paper from inside his breastplate and held it out.

It was worn and brown at the edges, the ink beginning to fade. The elegant hand was familiar from watching Laurent scrawl notes in the margins of maps.

Damen felt a thrum of something like vertigo as he realized once again that the web was wider than he’d imagined; both Laurent’s web and his uncle’s. With it came a wave of exhaustion. Battlefields were straightforward. He would almost welcome the march on Charcy. But without Laurent’s half of the company, it was suicide.

Feeling strangled by his Veretian collar, Damen began yanking at the laces.

“He promised proof of Kastor’s treachery,” Nikandros said. “If I would bring him an army. Do you know what proof he has?”

Damen shook his head, pulling the jacket loose at the neck. “I wish I did.”

“I suppose the fact that you are alive is a good start.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know who you are? Aren’t you commanding a fort in his name?” Damen didn’t have to look up from the laces at his wrists to know Nikandros was frowning. “You said you had an alliance.”

“I know. It’s complicated.” With three sets of laces loosened, Damen shrugged the stiff jacket over his head and tossed it on the bed, stretching his arms above his head.

Behind him, Nikandros made a choking noise. He turned, startled, and froze, following his friend’s gaze to the gold cuff on his wrist, revealed by the loose sleeve of his undershirt falling back.

Damen fought the urge to hide the hand behind his back like a child caught stealing sweets.

“What is _that_?” Nikandros gasped. Shock warred with disgust on his face, and disgust won. He flinched back when Damen reached out, unthinking, with the same hand to try and calm him.

There was a knock at the door, and Jord’s voice muffled through the wood. “You wanted me?”

Damen met Nikandros’ gaze, recognizing the bewildered horror on his face from his own first days of captivity – _how could anyone do this to a king?_ “Come,” he called to Jord.

“Hide that!” Nikandros hissed as the door creaked open.

“He already knows,” Damen said, and watched that knowledge transform his friend’s face again. “Jord, meet the Kyros of Delpha. Nikandros, meet Jord of the Prince’s guard.”

Jord gave a short bow. Nikandros’ jaw worked, restrained rage burning in his eyes, and said nothing.

“Jord, report on the status of the fort.”

“Under control. Your highness,” he added, after a deliberate pause that made Nikandros tense beside Damen. “I would be more confident if Enguerran were here, but if you can control your troops, Guymar can probably control ours.”

“Of all the insolent-” Nikandros began, but Damen cut him off with a gesture. He felt like he’d been doing nothing else all day, attempting to keep good men from killing each other.

“Go on.”

“If you wanted a report on the keep, you’d have called Guymar.” Jord lifted his chin. “That’s not why you called me here.”

“You’re right. Come.” Damen gestured them both toward the map strewn table, where less than a day ago, he and Laurent had sat, heads together in conference. Nikandros didn’t move. There was a stubborn set to his jaw that Damen knew all too well, and his eyes were still fixed on Damen’s wrist.

Sighing, he raised his arm to display the cuff. “When Kastor killed my household and captured me, he and Jokaste conspired to send me as a slave to Vere. I formed an alliance with Prince Laurent and he freed me.”

Jord let out a breath just barely too soft to be called a snort.

“The Prince freed you? You were his slave?” Damen heard his voice thicken with incredulity and distaste. “You served _Laurent of Vere_ as a slave?” Then Nikandros turned, and looked at the wide bed in the center of the room.

Damen flushed.

The bed had been made neatly since he and Laurent had last lain together. Indeed, the night before his departure Laurent hadn’t slept at all. But Damen's cheeks were warm as if the tangled sheets were still upon the bed, still damp with fresh sweat. Nikandros’ face was pale beneath his brown complexion, and Jord’s mouth was pinched. Clearly, neither was happy at the thought of Damianos of Akielos coupling with the Prince of Vere.

“Kyros,” he said harshly. “We have a rescue to plan.”

Nikandros’ mouth twisted, but he held his tongue.

Jord looked down at the maps. Damen wasn’t sure if he could read. “So why am I really here?”

“I was hoping...” Damen paused, feeling the dull pain of what he was about to ask. “I was hoping you might know any details of Fortaine that could help us.”

Jord made a sharp, aborted move toward Damen, fists clenching and face twisted furiously. Damen tensed and Nikandros put a hand on his sword, but Jord halted himself almost at once, visibly regaining control. He looked at Damen with open fury. “I was not bedding him for information against his father.”

“I know. But any detail he might have let slip – training habits, numbers of men. I’m sorry, Jord.”

“Troop numbers and defense maneuvers are not my idea of pillow talk,” Jord said, each word clipped and cold.

Damen let out a breath. “For your Prince.”

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Jord said, “What are you going to do? Will you ride up at the head of an army, with your standard flying? Is that really how you want him to find out?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to do to get him out.”

Jord stared at him, and then nodded once, sharply. “Let me think about it.”

“Thank you.”

“If there’s nothing else...?”

“You may go.”

He sighed heavily as the door closed behind Jord. In the hallway, he could hear the faint muffled voices of him exchanging words with Lazar.

“You let him speak very freely with you,” Nikandros said darkly.

“He’s earned it. Anyway, all the Veretians are used to... not standing on ceremony with me.” Nikandros flinched at the reminder. “And Jord has reason to be angry with me.”

Nikandros’ face said very clearly that he thought no Veretian had a right to be angry at the King, but instead he said, “What happened to his lover? The one who might know something of Fortaine? Why not ask him?”

“He’s dead,” Damen said shortly. “It doesn’t matter now. The important thing is Fortaine.”

“Let me get this straight.” Nikandros crossed his arms. “You’re planning to storm an impregnable fortress to rescue an enemy prince who _held you as a slave_.”

“That sounds right.”

“Sorry, should I repeat that last bit again?”

“ _Nikandros_.”

“He kept you as a _slave!_ Do you have any idea what the other Kyroi would think if they knew? Your soldiers? Makedon? You are their king, Damen, the rightful king. You ought to be marching to reclaim your throne but instead you want to go rushing off after this Veretian snake, the man you... _served_...” The word twisted bitterly on his tongue.

“It’s not like-” Damen stopped because it _was_ a little like that. “Laurent is a good man, and he will be a great king. His uncle who sits as Regent is a far greater threat and I have seen enough of him to know I have no chance against him without Laurent. In going to his rescue, I am protecting Akielos.”

Nikandros held his gaze for a long moment, and then huffed out an exasperated breath. “Very well. I am at my king’s command. Where do we begin? Fortaine is impenetrable.”

“Not if they open the gates for you.”

Nikandros narrowed your eyes. “And how do you plan to make them do that?”

Damen swallowed. “We have something they want.”

 

“You don’t have to come with us,” Damen said, for the third time that morning.

Jord set his jaw. “Yes I do.”

They were again in the courtyard in the gray light before dawn, a small band preparing to leave. Five men and a wagon. This plan would never have occurred to Damen six months ago. It made his skin crawl to think about. But it would work, at least long enough to get them inside.

“You don’t have to come with us either,” he added, turning to Nikandros, who was looking grim and uncomfortable laced into Veretian soldier’s garb. “You could stay and keep Makedon from killing people here while I’m gone.”

“I just got you back. You think I'm letting you walk into a Veretian snake hole alone?”

The party rode out through the gates of Ravenel, Jord and Paschal on the bench of the wagon, wheels rattling on the rutted road, Damen, Nikandros and Lazar riding along side. The sun rose, color seeping into the landscape around them. It was a grim, silent ride. Damen was acutely aware that with every passing hour they were less likely to find Laurent alive, but they could only travel as fast as the cart.

Fortaine came into sight in late afternoon, a squat, forbidding fortress on a hilltop, perfectly placed to withstand any siege.

The wagon halted out of range of arrows, and Lazar rode forward under a white flag to announce their purpose. He had been selected as the most superficially inoffensive of them all – Veretian and originally one of the Regent’s men. Damen and Nikandros kept to the back of the group and tried to look small. Hopefully, the Veretian clothing, and the mixed complexions of the border population would be enough to disguise them. Jord sat motionless at the reigns of the wagon, face stony.

The evening wind blew Lazar’s voice back toward them as he hailed the men on the gate. “Tell Lord Guion we’ve come to return his son’s body.”


	2. Chapter 2

As they rode beneath the shadow of Fortaine’s forbidding gatehouse, sharp points of the portcullis hanging over them, Damen drew his horse alongside Jord on the wagon bench. “Anything you’ve remembered,” he muttered. “Tell me now.”

“There are secret dungeons beneath the main prison,” Jord said under his breath, lips barely moving. “Start looking there.”

In the courtyard, they were met by a small party of nobles – an older woman in a fine gown, eyes red with weeping, and two young men who bore an unmistakable brotherly resemblance to Aimeric. There was no sign of Guion himself.

Damen was scanning the walls, counting soldiers and doorways. There were a dozen or so guards, but all eyes were on the wagon.

Aimeric’s brothers were lifting his body out. The stiffness had gone from his corpse, and it had begun to soften in the summer heat. During their journey the inside of the cart had started to stink with the unmistakable odor of decay. Someone unwrapped a fold of linen from the body’s face. Aimeric’s mother began to wail.

It was as good a distraction as any. Damen slipped through a nearby doorway into the cool dimness of the fort.

He didn’t know where he was going, or what the entrance to a secret dungeon would look like, but he squared his shoulders and walked with confidence. A few people he passed gave him curious stares, but no one tried to stop him until he turned a corner, and saw the same soldier he had already passed once before.

His brow furrowed. “Hey, where do you- ”

Damen slammed him against a wall, an arm across his throat before he could shout. “Which way to the dungeons?” The man choked, and Damen pressed harder, using his hip to block the man reaching for his sword. “Just point.”

Hand trembling, he pointed. Damen knocked the man’s head against the wall, and he slumped unconscious. After a moment’s thought, he seized the man’s sword from its sheath.

The entrance to the dungeons was through a narrow doorway at the edge of the keep that Damen had walked right past. There were no guards, only a dingy stone hall lined on the right with heavy wooden doors. All the cells were empty, and the air smelled stale. No one had been held prisoner here for some time.

A secret dungeon, Jord had said. Damen ran his hand along the wall, past each door. There were arrow slits high up in the walls of the cells, showing the sky, except for the very last cell. The unlocked door swung easily when he pushed it, despite its weight. The hinges were oiled and perfectly balanced.

As soon as he stepped inside, he saw the sliver of unsteady light in the far wall. The hidden door was ajar. Inside was a narrow set of winding steps, barely lit by a single flickering torch at each turn. Damen bent to examine the door and found that there was no mechanism to open it from within. Whoever had left it open was still down there.

He hefted his stolen sword and cautiously began to descend.

Unlike Marlas and Aquitart where the modern forts had been built near the ruins of ancient Artesian castles, the stones of Fortaine had been laid atop the foundation of an older structure. The walls were black with age, pitted and worn. Putting a hand against the wall for balance, Damen felt that the stones were less evenly set than the masonry of the new fort above.

The air was chill and damp, an earthy smell wafting up from below. His footsteps echoed in the silence.

Then from down below, there was the unmistakable sound of men’s voices shouting. Trusting to the commotion to cover his footsteps, Damen broke into a run, skinning his palms on the rough walls as he hurtled around the turns. There was a rattle of metal against stone and the slam of a heavy door, then more shouting. The voice wasn’t Laurent’s although it sounded familiar.

At the base of the stairs, Damen halted and peered around the corner, gripping the sword.

Flickering torchlight illuminated a narrow passageway between barred cells, smaller than the hall above. A slight blond figure listed against the wall, clutching his shoulder, shirt soaked with blood. Beside him was a heavy cell door with a barred window, and snarling out of it was Guion.

Damen’s chest contracted painfully, relief and incredulous admiration making his heart turn over. Laurent – impossible Laurent – had somehow managed to free himself.

“-left them to die like rats in a trap at Charcy,” Guion was snarling. “Your so-called allies will hunt you down and kill you.”

“Yes, I’m aware I missed my rendezvous.” Laurent’s voice was so weak Damen almost couldn’t hear him. “There’s a man I was supposed to meet – with all these ideas about honor and fair play. He tries to keep me from doing the wrong thing, but he’s not here right now. Unfortunately for you.”

Guion took a step back from the bars of the cell, and Damen took a step forward.

Laurent spun at the sound and staggered a little. Metal flashed in his hand – a knife. His eyes widened.

Guion was craning his neck to see who had entered the corridor. “You! Soldier! Seize this boy.”

“You’re here.” Laurent’s voice was hoarse and uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you.”

Laurent’s brow furrowed as if there was something unclear about that. Then he shook his head and the movement made him sway dangerously on his feet.

“Laurent!” Rushing forward, Damen reached out to steady him. Slipping an arm around his narrow waist, he felt the tackiness of drying blood stiffening the fabric of Laurent’s jacket.  

“I’m fine.” He listed against Damen’s chest. Always pale, Laurent’s face was practically translucent except where fresh bruises were blooming on his jaw. The wound in his shoulder was oozing bright blood through the layers of his clothing.

“You’re not fine. We need to get you to Paschal.”

“Paschal’s here? Bring him down at once. Govart needs a doctor.”

“Govart?” Damen did a double-take at the cell door. “Govart’s in there?”

“Have you lost your grip on Veretian? Make yourself useful and send Paschal.” His usual commanding tone was compromised by the thready weakness of his voice.

“No. You need to lie down in a real bed and have that wound cleaned and stitched. We’re going up to the keep, where there’s better light and Paschal will look at you there.”

Laurent’s fingers tightened painfully on Damen’s forearm. “I’m not... No one knows I’m here. Except these fools.” He tipped his head minutely toward the cells. Guion was watching them silently from behind the bars. Damen couldn’t see Govart, but his pulse pounded at the thought of Laurent trapped in a cell with him. “My appearance is an uncertainty, and I am... not sure I am... capable of controlling the outcome. In my current state.”

Damen stopped himself from saying _you don’t have to control everything all the time,_ and instead said, “We brought a wagon. If we can get you into it, we can get out unseen.”

“You came prepared.”

“We came with Aimeric’s body.”

There was a sharp breath from the cell. They both looked around at Guion. His usual ruddy color was gone from his cheeks, leaving him looking sick. “Aimeric... is dead?” he said softly.

Laurent’s face twisted, and Damen, still supporting him, felt tension seize his body. “What did you expect?” he snapped, furious scorn lending his voice strength. “Did you truly think that you could sell your son into the Regent’s clutches and get him back alive?”

“You,” Guion snarled. “You did this, you _filthy_ , traitorous-”

“You think I killed him?” Laurent interrupted, raising his voice. “No. I would be within my right, to dispatch a traitor to the true crown – I may still do so to you. But no, I didn’t kill Aimeric. You and my uncle did that, between you, years ago when you first sent Aimeric to his bed.” Guion shut his mouth sharply, eyes going wide. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know? I know _exactly_ what the Regent did to him. Do you? No, you try not to think about it. Are you ashamed? Are you sorry now? You didn’t mind the thought of your ten year old son split open on someone’s cock, but you have the _gall_ to pretend you loved him now that he’s slit his own wrists.”

Guion was gaping, face white. Damen’s mouth was open too, and he closed it sharply.

Laurent breathed out heavily. He trembling under Damen’s hands, but when he pulled away from Damen to stand on his own, the tremor was invisible. “You can rot here until I return for you.” Turning his back on the cell, he strode toward the stairs and vanished around the corner.

With a last glance at Guion’s ashen face, Damen hurried after him and almost collided with Laurent, who had halted at the base of the stairs, leaning against the wall just out of sight and breathing heavily. Looking up sharply, Laurent made a gesture of silence and began to climb.

It was slow progress, Laurent stopping to brace himself against the wall with his good arm every few steps, each time shooting Damen such vicious looks that he made no comment or offer of help, even after they were out of earshot of Guion and Govart. Blood dripped steadily from the hem of his saturated jacket, leaving a trail on the stones.

When they made it to the top, Laurent visibly unsteady on his feet, Damen closed the hidden door behind them and said, “Stay here while I go out and find a way to smuggle you to the cart.”

Laurent shook his head, closing his eyes as he leaned against the wall. “Change of plans,” he rasped, voice hardly more than a whisper. “We’re staying in the fort. Find Guion’s wife and bring her to me. And Paschal,” he conceded after a moment’s pause. Without opening his eyes, he added, “What are you waiting for?”

Damen left him, and hurriedly retraced his steps toward the courtyard, but before he reached it, he heard familiar voices and turned a corner to see the rescue party in the company of half a dozen of Guion’s guards, along with his red-eyed wife and one of the two sons.

Everyone was looking at him with varying degrees of shock and worry. Glancing down at himself he saw that his front was bloody from where he’d held Laurent against his chest. A couple of Guion’s men put their hands on their weapons.

“My lady, I have a message for you.” He bowed low to Guion’s wife, whose name he realized he didn’t know, and hesitated. The message was _please come alone with me to the dungeons_ , but he imagined that would be ill-received from a blood-stained foreigner who had just gone suspiciously missing and reappeared. “Would you all accompany me urgently? It concerns your husband.”

The lady was frowning in confusion. “Why hasn’t he come? I sent for him when... when we heard about Aimeric.”

“Yes. I am sorry for your loss.” Damen wished urgently that he had learned her name. “There is a matter that concerns your husband. If you come with me, all will be clear.” He was pretty sure that was a lie, but it sounded reassuring.

Looking around at the rest of the party, the Lady nodded. “Very well. Lead us.”

So Damen led the whole group back the way he had come. At the entrance to the dungeons, he stepped forward, blocking the others’ view with his body as he tapped on the door and opened it. He knew Laurent would not want to be seen weak by so many people.

Laurent was sitting on the ground with his head resting on his knees. Blood pooled on the stones beneath him, dark in contrast to his bright hair. Damen sucked in a breath. “Paschal!”

At his voice, Laurent looked up. The doctor pressed around Damen and knelt beside his prince. “Your highness. Where are you injured?”

Weakly, Laurent gestured to his shoulder. “Did you find Lady Loyse?”

 _That_ was her name. “I did but... there were others with her.”

“They’re here now?” Damen could see Laurent call on some unfathomable reserve of strength. “Lift me up.”

“His shoulder,” Paschal protested.

“I know.” Damen gripped him carefully under his good shoulder and around his ribs, and slid his other arm beneath his knees.

“Not pick me up, idiot,” Laurent snapped. “Lift me to my feet.” Carefully, they maneuvered Laurent to his feet, Paschal supporting him on one side, putting pressure on the wound, Damen on the other. “Alright. Let’s face them.”

When Damen kicked the door open, the whole group looked in shock at the Crown Prince, appearing like a bloody ghost. Guion’s men, loyal to the Regent, confused, and on edge already after the death of Aimeric, gripped their weapons. Guion’s son, a man about Kastor’s age, looked furious. Lady Loyse clapped a hand over her mouth. “Prince Laurent,” she gasped. “Your majesty.”

The moment tilted on those words. It was an address for a king, not a prince.

Guion’s soldiers would not strike against the Prince without a direct order. The son might give the order, but was caught by his mother’s voice. Jord, Lazar, and Nikandros were unarmed – part of their disguise – but Damen saw them all tense for a fight. Behind him, hidden beside the door, was the sword he’d stolen earlier. The four of them against six he thought were fair odds, even without weapons.

Laurent spoke. “Lady Loyse. I am terribly sorry to impose on you unexpectedly. And at such a difficult time.”

“How dare you come here and wag that tongue at us,” Guion’s son snarled.

“Ah, Reuven. A pleasure as always. I know you weren’t close to your brother, but his death must have been a shock.” Laurent’s tone was cool and courtly.

“You killed him. I don’t know how but he got mixed up with you and now he’s dead. You poison everything you touch, just like your uncle says.”

“Reuven!” his mother exclaimed.

“Does he? Well, happily I have no interest in touching you.” Turning his gaze away, Laurent somehow managed to dismiss Reuven with no more than a flick of his eyes. “I have spoken with Lord Guion, and we have agreed to a truce until Aimeric’s rights can be performed. I will stay here at Fortaine with my retinue until then.”

“Where is my husband?” Loyse asked over the sound of her son’s furious spluttering.

“Mourning your son,” Laurent said, clipped. “He will rejoin you when he’s had sufficient time to grieve alone. Lady Loyse, I ask you by the friendship you bore my mother – and the love you have for Vere, whoever sits on the throne. Let us have peace until your son is buried.”

Loyse bowed her head. “Yes. Yes, your highness. You are welcome in Fortaine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Laurent was installed in the fine suite kept for visiting royalty, despite Reuven’s vehement protests, and the others in the barracks. Nikandros refused to leave Damen, and Damen, Jord, and Lazar all refused to leave Laurent, so all four of them ended up standing around the wide, red-draped bed, watching Paschal tend the prince’s shoulder. 

Laurent had made it to the privacy of the chambers before collapsing, and was unconscious as Paschal cleaned and stitched the wound. 

“Will he be alright?” Damen asked.  

“You’re in my light,” Paschal said. Damen moved back. “The cut itself is not dangerous. It is the loss of blood and the risk of infection that pose a threat. How long ago was the wound inflicted?”

“I don’t know. Long enough before I found him to soak his clothes. It was either Guion or Govart who did it.”

“Govart?” Paschal and Jord said simultaneously. 

“He’s in the cells. Laurent said he needed a doctor. Guion’s down there too. Somehow he managed to get out and lock them both in.”

Everyone looked at Laurent. Unconscious, he looked vulnerable and young, younger than twenty – bruises mottled his delicate face and his eyes fluttered under his blue lids as he slept. 

“Who’s Govart?” Nikandros asked. 

The others glanced at one another. Paschal had paused in tying off bandages. “The Regent’s thug,” Damen said. “The Prince wanted him kept alive.” 

“I will see to him when I am finished here,” Paschal said, hands beginning to move again over Laurent’s shoulder. 

“Take Jord and Lazar with you. Guion’s in the cell with him, and he’s not happy.” 

“I imagine not,” Paschal said mildly. He tied the last neat bandage. “Someone needs to watch him in case he wakes, and to keep him from rolling on the shoulder in his sleep.” 

“I’ll stay,” Damen said. 

Standing against the wall, Jord shifted. “While we go with the doctor to the dungeons?”  

Damen met his gaze levelly. “Do you have a problem leaving the Prince in my company, Jord?” 

Jord looked away, said nothing. 

“If he wanted to kill the Prince, he could have done it any night in their tent,” Lazar drawled. “My guess is he found better things to do instead.” Nikandros choked. 

When the others had left, Damen sank down in Paschal’s chair beside the bed, and looked at Laurent. His face had been washed, but there was still blood and dirt in his hair. Damen looked at the basin and cloth that Paschal had left, almost reached for it, and then felt Nikandros’ disapproving glare on the back of his neck, and let his hands fall into his lap. The cuff was heavy on his wrist. 

“So this is the Prince of Vere,” Nikandros said when they were alone.  Approaching the bed, he stared down at Laurent, and Damen suppressed the unreasonable urge to put himself between them. “I knew he was blond like his brother, but now I’ve seen the full effect... I understand why we’re on this rescue mission.” 

“It’s not like that.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

Damen hesitated a moment too long and Nikandros rolled his eyes. “I thought so. And what are you planning to do when he finds out you are the man who killed his brother?” 

Something painful clenched in Damen’s stomach. “I’ve been meaning to tell him, ever since we got to the border. It’s... I don’t want...”  _ I don’t want things to change _ , he thought, and shut his mouth on how stupid that was. Did he want to continue to be Laurent’s slave? No. He wanted his home, his kingdom and his crown. But he also wanted the firelight in Laurent’s hair, his soft voice in midnight conversation, the taste of his mouth.  

Nikandros’ gaze was flat and unimpressed. Damen had the uncomfortable feeling that his thoughts were all too obvious to his oldest friend. 

 

Paschal and the others returned after the lamps had been lit for the night. “Any change?” he asked, looking at the Prince. 

“He hasn’t woken.” 

Leaning over the bed, Paschal checked Laurent’s pulse and temperature. “No fever. He’s just resting. It’s a good sign.” 

“You found Guion and Govart?” 

“Yes. The one furious, the other confused. Laurent hit him over the head with a chair, apparently. I couldn’t get anything out of him except profanity. Guion on the other hand promised to have us all painfully executed for failing to release him.” Paschal didn’t look concerned. 

Lazar grinned. “Our prince sure knows how to make enemies,” he said, sounding proud. 

“Is it a natural talent, do you think, or one he had to cultivate?” Nikandros asked acerbically. 

Damen glanced down at Laurent. “I’m sure it’s a natural talent.” 

Paschal looked at Damen. “You’re staying the night?” 

“Yes.” Damen deliberately didn’t look at NIkandros. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Jord said, frowning. 

Paschal nodded. “If he wakes, make sure he drinks water. As much liquid as you can make him take. I will be just down the hall.” 

Lazar and Paschal stepped out. Nikandros hesitated, looking unhappy. 

“Go to bed, old friend,” Damen said, clasping him on the shoulder. “I’ve spent many weeks in the company of these men. I will be safe until tomorrow.” 

Eying Jord, Nikandros bowed and left. 

Jord stood in the doorway. The torchlight from the hall cast his face in shadow that the lamps burning by the bed weren’t bright enough to dispel. “I know you think you care for him. But do you think he will be glad to have your care when your deception is revealed?”

Damen flexed his wrist and felt the blunted edge of the cuff dig into his forearm. “When he finds out, I’d rather him know that I stood by him until he dismissed me, rather than that I left him because I was too cowardly to face him.” 

When the door shut behind Jord, Damen sank down beside the bed and pressed his hands to his face. 

 

Damen woke with a jerk, startling upright and nearly falling out of his chair. Laurent was watching him, eyes wide in the darkness. In the foggy edge of sleep Damen thought he had heard his own name, but that couldn’t be right. Laurent had never spoken his name. 

“You’re awake.” Damen rubbed his eyes. “How are you feeling?” 

“Water?” Laurent croaked. 

“Of course.” He scrambled to pour some from the pitcher and held the cup to Laurent’s lips. Some of the water spilled down Laurent’s chin as he drank. Thoughtlessly, he reached out with his fingers to wipe it up, swiping the pad of his thumb beneath Laurent’s lower lip. Laurent’s eyes widened, and he froze. “Sorry.” 

Laurent just blinked at him. He looked drowsy, a little disoriented. Paschal had given him something for the pain. Carefully, Damen withdrew his hand. 

“You’re really here,” Laurent rasped, voice hoarse. 

“I am.” Damen found himself smiling. “Why? You thought you dreamt me?” 

Laurent looked away, the faint blue light from the window making his ivory face glow in the dark. “I lost a lot of blood. I thought... maybe I was hallucinating.” 

“Surely if you hallucinated a rescue, you wouldn’t imagine me as your hero.” Damen had meant for it to be light and joking, but it came out... not quite that way. 

Laurent shrugged with his good shoulder. “It seemed more plausible than the alternative.”

Damen shut his mouth. 

“More water,” Laurent ordered. 

Holding the cup carefully, Damen watched his throat move as he swallowed, saw the flutter of his pale eyelashes. “You didn’t think anyone would come for you.” 

There was a long pause, and then Laurent said, “No.”

“You thought we would leave you to die alone?” 

He pushed the cup away. “No need to be dramatic. My uncle wanted me alive. And in any case, I got myself out, didn’t I?” His dry tone was ruined by a yawn. 

“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” Damen said. 

If he hadn’t known Laurent as well or been watching as closely, he would have missed the snap of tension that went through his body – a slight furrow in his brow, a tightening around his mouth. “Three days are over,” he said. 

It took Damen a moment to realize what he was saying, to throw his mind back to Ravenel and the promise they had forged the morning after making love. “And?” 

“And you’re still here,” Laurent said. Moonlight spilled on the flagstones beneath the window, lending a faint silver-blue light to the rest of the shadowed room. Laurent blazed in the dark. 

“I will see this through. With you.” 

“With me,” Laurent echoed, lying back on the pillow and closing his eyes. “Are you going to sit there all night?” 

“That was my plan, yes.” 

Without opening his eyes, Laurent said, “It’s making my neck hurt just thinking about that. Get in bed.” 

Damen started, feeling an unexpected and inappropriate flash of heat at those words. The bed was easily wide enough to sleep two without them ever touching, and Laurent was injured. 

“Well?” the Prince said. “I can’t sleep with you sitting there staring at me.” 

Hesitantly, Damen put a knee on the bed, feeling it dip under him. Laurent didn’t move. He settled on the other side of the bed, pulling the top sheet over himself. His mind was full of the memory of the last time he’d been in a bed with Laurent – golden morning instead of blue night. Waking with Laurent curled against his chest, relaxed and smiling at him. 

“I won’t leave you to face your Uncle alone,” he whispered. “I promise.” 

Laurent let out a soft breath, eyes still closed. “Ah, my honorable barbarian. What am I going to do with you?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short because I split it off from the end of the previous chapter. Just a little bit of fluff before things get rough again! Let's appreciate how sweet and vulnerable Laurent is doped up on the canon equivalent of Vicodin


	4. Chapter 4

Damen woke disoriented. He had fallen asleep still laced into his Veretian-style soldier’s uniform, and it had twisted as he slept to be even more constricting around his chest. The jacket and the blanket together had been too hot and left him sweating into the sheets.

Laurent, an arm’s reach away, was awake, speaking softly to Paschal, and looking as collected as an injured man could while having his bandages changed. He winced only very slightly as Paschal peeled away the layer of blood-soaked fabric from his skin. Damen knew from experience that it would tug at the scabbing of the wound.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Damen rubbed his eyes and sat up. “How are you?”

“Much stronger.”

“He is to stay in bed for at least another full day,” Paschal said firmly. “Then, _if_ he hasn’t developed a fever, he can get up.”

“Yes, yes. You’ll find Paschal has been crowned king during my convalescence and I am now utterly at his mercy.”

Damen smiled helplessly. “What is your first edict as king, Paschal-Exalted?” he asked, using the Akielon honorific.

“Something involving salve, I’m sure,” Laurent said. “Possibly broth.”

“It’s lucky you know my work so well, your highness,” Paschal said mildly, dipping a cloth in the basin beside the bed. “So that while I am king you can continue my duties.”

A genuine smile quirked Laurent’s mouth, and Damen remembered that Paschal had been his physician since childhood. “I am sure that suppurating wounds and vile contagions would be a relief from court life at Arles,” Laurent said.

Cleaning the area around the wound with the rag, Paschal hummed in agreement. “Some ills are easier to treat than others.”

“Yes.” Something dark passed across Laurent’s face. “Some things are too fetid to save.”

“Even so, your highness,” Paschal said calmly, putting down the cloth and picking up a strip of clean linen bandage. “Sit forward please.”

Laurent’s hair fell over his face, hiding his expression, as he leaned forward for Paschal to bind his shoulder.

Damen swung himself out of the bed. “Soon we will have need for battle medics, not court physicians, if your uncle has his way.”

There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” Laurent called.

It was Lazar. “Good morning, your highness.” He glanced at Damen, straightening his jacket beside the bed and smirked. “Your orders for the day?”

“Keep an eye on the dungeons – I want to know of anyone who goes in or out. Rueven isn’t terribly bright but if he finds his father before I am done with him it will not be to our advantage. Thankfully, those dungeons are all but forgotten, rarely used – how did you know to look for them?”

“Jord told me,” Damen said, kneeling to lace his boots. “Apparently Aimeric mentioned them to him.” He looked up in time to see Laurent’s mouth tighten.

“Well let us hope Reuven was a less exploratory child than his youngest brother. Is that all, Paschal?”

“Yes, your highness. Be sure to keep drinking liquids. When one loses blood, the body suffers more from loss of water than from iron or any of the other vital minerals.”

“I will bear that in mind.”

“And _rest,_ ” Paschal added.

Laurent settled down among the pillows and blinked innocently at him. “Why of course. Lazar, send Kyros Nikandros in.”

Lazar nodded, and left the room behind Paschal.

“You recognized Nikandros?” Damen asked, startled.

“Of course I recognized him. I’ve been considering him as a possible ally for months. I couldn’t acknowledge him though, not when I didn’t know what cover you’d used to get into the fort.”

Shaking his head, Damen said. “Laurent, there’s something I need to tell you. About me.”

“Is now the appropriate time?”

“I should have told you... weeks ago. I’m sorry, Laurent, I...”

“Then it can wait a little longer,” Laurent interrupted. “Help me sit up.”

Instinctively, Damen moved forward, sliding an arm behind Laurent’s back and helping him slide up the bed. “No, Laurent, listen. I’m...”

There was a knock at the door. “Ah, here’s the kyros,” Laurent said, settling back against the pillows with a barely-visible wince. “Come in.”

Damen breathed out heavily in frustration. Nikandros, stepping through the door, paused and looked between them.

“Ah, Kyros. I had expected to greet you at Ravenel but it is my great pleasure to welcome you to Fortaine.”

“Thank you,” Nikandros said, guarded.

“You have of course met my commander.” Laurent gestured to him. Damen flinched slightly, meeting Nikandros’ gaze. Laurent didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Nikandros narrowed his eyes slightly, but just nodded. “I appreciate your offer of aid in this difficult time, Kyros.”

“You offered a compelling trade.”

“So eager to commit treason against your crowned king?” Laurent said calmly.

Nikandros frowned. “Eager to reveal treason against the rightful king. You said you had proof of Kastor’s treachery.”

“Indeed. We heard of the death of King Theomedes, and the betrayal and execution of the crown prince by his own guards. A great tragedy of course. So my first clue that something was amiss was when I received a gift from the new King Kastor and found myself in possession of Crown Prince Damianos.”

The world tilted. Damen’s stomach lurched, like missing a step in a sword fight and knowing you would be too slow to correct. Everything took on a different shape. There was a ringing sound in his ears. He opened his mouth.

“And so you decided to keep the rightful king of Akielos as a slave?” Nikandros said, eyebrows raised. Damen shut his mouth.

“It is impolite to refuse a gift.” Laurent was cool and impassive, for all the world like he was sitting on a throne and not injured in bed. He had not even looked at Damen.

“I see.” Nikandros’ face was thunderous. “And it was when you received this... gift that you contacted me?”

“Not immediately. I am not omnipotent,” he said, in a tone that suggested this displeased him. “Although my uncle was clearly the orchestrator of the move, it was not yet clear who else was involved. I needed to find leverage.”

“The Crown Prince was not leverage enough?”

Laurent shrugged. “It never pays to have just one piece of leverage. A single man is so easy to... mislay.”

Nikandros’ scowl was dark. “And with this danger of leverage being _mislaid_ , you thought it safe and reasonable to keep the Crown Prince of Akielos bound and weaponless as a slave?”

“Oh, he was under excellent guard. And Damen is hardly helpless even chained to the floor.” Laurent showed his teeth, a mockery of a smile, and NIkandros bristled. Damen’s own heartbeat was throbbing in his ears. “Does that bother you? The thought of your king on his knees before me? Before the whole court at Arles?” Nikandros’ face was twisted with fury, his sword hand flexing. “He sucked my cock, you know.”

As always, Laurent used words like fists and Damen felt the blow land on his chest. “Laurent,” he said, half reproach, half plea. _It wasn’t like that._ He thought of taking Laurent in his mouth, the salty taste of him, the soft sounds he’d choked back and tiny, abrupt movements of his hips. His shocked, wide eyes and quick breath. It hadn’t been like that at all. Laurent had known who he was the whole time. It was difficult to breathe.

“Oh, was that private?” Now Laurent was looking at him, an unpleasant smile on his lips. “I’m sorry. Only I’m sure it wasn’t the first time you’ve serviced a man. Does it bother your Kyros?”

“There is no shame in pleasuring a lover,” Nikandros ground out through clenched teeth. “What is shameful is forcing someone against their will, using them as a slave when it is below their station.”

“Nikandros....” Damen had completely lost control of the situation – blindsided by Laurent’s acknowledging his identity and then bewildered by the sudden vitriol.

“Ah, so you also find the practice of slavery shameful? I agree. But we’ve side-tracked ourselves. Do you want to hear the rest of what I discovered about Kastor, Kyros?”

There was a silence. Nikandros was breathing hard, scowling furiously at Laurent. Damen wondered fuzzily what Laurent thought to gain by antagonizing an ally he’d worked so hard to cultivate.

“Tell me,” Nikandros grunted finally.

“Kastor was a pawn in my uncle’s game, that much was clear. The coup in Ios destabilized the nation making it easy to find influence after the death of the king. Not a natural death, of course.”

Nikandros bowed his head. “So it was poison. I wondered, afterward.” Damen felt again the stab of guilt – if he had listened to his friend’s concern, if he had been less blind. _It is not naïve to trust your family,_ he’d said.

“Yes, a slow poison,” Laurent agreed. “Administered by his physician, presumably. My uncle would not make such a bold move without someone loyal nearby to supervise, so Guion, the ambassador, was the clear culprit. Not that he ordered the poisoning. I’m sure my uncle managed to twist it so that Kastor was convinced it was his own idea. But Guion was instrumental in making overtures and cultivating regard between my uncle and your... bastard. Why do you think we are at Fortaine?”

“My understanding was that we are here because you were captured and escaped barely alive.”

Laurent waved a hand, as if that detail were of no consequence. “Yes but why do you think we are _still_ at Fortaine?”

“You think you have some sort of leverage over Guion.”

“We will find out soon,” Laurent said. “Now Kyros, if you will excuse us, I believe Damianos has something to say to me.”

The sound of his name on Laurent’s tongue sent a sharp shiver down his back. His mouth was dry. Nikandros hesitated, looking between them.

Damen swallowed. “It’s alright.”

The door shut behind Nikandros, leaving a silence so deep that Damen could hear the rustle of the curtains in the breeze from the windows, and the faint clatter of hooves and voices from the courtyard below; the thump of his own heart.

“You knew,” he said.

Laurent was sitting stiffly upright in bed. “Yes.”

“From the very beginning, you knew...”

“Did you really think,” Laurent cut over him, voice crisp and harsh, “That I wouldn’t recognize the man who killed my brother?” The words were icy, stabbing. Damen stepped back. “I knew from the moment they dragged you in front of me at Arles. I knew at the baths, at the whipping post-”

“At Ravenel?” Damen interrupted. “When we... when you...”

“When I let you fuck me?” His fingers were clenched on the bed sheets, knuckles white, but his face could not have been more impassive had he been standing fully dressed. “It was worth enduring your... fumbling attentions, to cement our alliance.”

Damen closed his eyes briefly, pain like a knife point in his chest, but he forced himself to breath through it, like taking a wound and continuing to fight on a battle field – like having Auguste slash open his shoulder, disarming him, and picking his sword back up.

“No,” he said, hoarsely. And then stronger, “No. There was no alliance then. You thought I was leaving. We both thought. You knew who I was, and you wanted... it was me.” His throat felt like it was closing, heart thundering in his ears. He thought of Laurent, shaking in his lap, coming as Damen pressed gentle kisses against his neck. The sweet, unguarded way Laurent had smiled at him in the morning. “You were making love to me.”

Laurent’s face was turned away, the pale curtain of his hair shielding his expression. “Yes,” he said finally, ice-cold, and the word shook Damen. “Is that what you want to hear? Yes, I lay with you, knowing full well who you were? Yes, I let you touch me with the same hands that slew my brother? That I wanted it?” His voice was hard and terrible. “Do you want to hear that I was so weak I succumbed to your illusion? The illusion of an honest man who stood by me and gave me good council? The man who never lied to me?”

“Laurent – I didn’t. I never lied to you.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Into it, in a precise, and mocking tone, the Prince said, “’Laurent, I am your slave’?”

Damen drew a heavy breath. “It wasn’t... don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it was... malicious. Intentional. I just... we both... I wanted to be...”

Raising his pale eyebrows, Laurent said, “You wanted to be my slave?”

Damen swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I wanted to be yours.”

“There was no slave,” Laurent said. “He never existed. I do not know who you are, but I know we have never met.”

“No. He is here.” Damen’s chest ached. “We are the same.”

Laurent lifted his chin. “Kneel, then.”

Bright morning light spilled across the bed, making the white sheets and Laurent’s hair blaze. Damen’s heart tripped.

He remembered Laurent as he had been at first – icy and furious – and Damen felt again the heat of his own rage, the weight of the collar, the yank of the chain. Then he thought of Laurent in the dungeon, soaked in blood, barely able to stand. The frigid prince who had gradually revealed himself as thoughtful, trustworthy, even kind. A lonely young man who spat his worst venom when he was afraid. He could have died, here, beneath their feet, bleeding out on the ancient stones.

“I cannot kneel before you as a King.” Damen had a crown, and the dignity of Akielos to consider – but he had learned something of shame in the last few months. There were things more shameful than kneeling before a lover. “Only as a man.”

Laurent’s eyes widened, as Damen went to his knees beside the bed and bowed his head.

His heart was beating fast. He couldn’t see Laurent’s face. Instead he was staring down at the crisp bed sheets and the cold stones beneath his knees.

“Get out.”

Looking up, startled, he met Laurent’s gaze. It was completely shuttered – he couldn’t read anything behind it. “I...”

“Get. Out.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

Shutting the door behind him, Damen leaned against the wall and huffed out a heavy breath.

Nikandros was waiting for him in the hall, standing beside Lazar who was on guard. Damen hoped the door was thick enough to have muffled their voices. He wasn’t ashamed of what he had offered Laurent, but it was... private. Doubly so for the sting of rejection burning in his gut.

“So Akielos’ new ally is blond and vicious,” Nikandros sighed. “If he is as skilled leading an army as he is with his tongue, I will say you have chosen well.” Lazar snorted, and grinned unrepentantly at Nikandros when he glared. “Although I can’t say I am comforted by my initial impression.”

“Just wait.”

“Are you saying he improves with time?”

“Not exactly,” Damen muttered. “Lazar, have you seen Jord?”

“Resting, after the night watch. In the barracks.” Since part of their disguise was as common Veretian soldiers, all four of them had been given beds in the guard house – possibly this was also intended to surround them by Guion’s men in case of a conflict. Damen, having slept beside Laurent, had not been there yet. His stomach clenched with the thought of Laurent’s drowsy voice in the dark, indulgent and impatient at once. _Get in bed._

He took his leave of Nikandros and went to find Jord. Crossing the courtyard, following Lazar’s directions, Damen stopped with his hand against the stone of the outer wall of the fort, and tipped his head back into the sun. Breathing deeply, he tried to let its warmth relax him.

Laurent had known the whole time.

Rolling his shoulders, Damen felt the tug of scar tissue. If he closed his eyes he could still see Laurent’s face – cool and impassive, watching the lash fall. Damen breathed out heavily, and knew without a doubt that Laurent had meant him to die.

He had thought that the insouciant disregard for whether he lived or died was simply capricious cruelty against a common soldier of an enemy nation. A shameful and degrading act suited to a spoilt, vicious child. It suggested a fickle temper that did not matched the careful man Damen had come to know – who could not always be counted on to be kind, but who was in everything deliberate and precise until he was angered past the point of reason.

But he was not a common soldier, and Laurent had known.

Everything fit. Pieces he had not realized were out of place shifted.

He remembered the uneasy truce between them in those early days away from Arles – united with a common enemy, but without trust or fellow feeling. The knife between them, pressed against Laurent’s ribs. The ice prince had placed himself beneath the hands of his brother’s murderer, looked him in the eye, and dared Damen to kill him.

He remembered Laurent’s voice, genuinely baffled, a little frustrated – _Why do you give me good counsel?_

His chest hurt at the thought of a young prince fighting for his life and crown, alone but for a handful of untrained soldiers and his most hated enemy. Of the iron will it would take to set aside that hatred; fold it down under layers of self control or self deception until you could sit with that enemy across a map, share a tent with him every night, hand him captaincy of your force. Of the tangled mess of loneliness and desire that could land you in bed with him.

But underneath it all, when there was no more pretending or denying, the hatred was still there. There was an ache under Damen’s ribs like a deep bruise.

 

In the cool dimness of the barracks, Damen found Jord sitting on a lower bunk, polishing the leather pieces of his armor.

Damen hesitated in the doorway, sunlight throwing his shadow across the rough wooden floor. “Laurent knows.”

Jord looked up sharply. “You told him?”

Stepping inside, Damen closed the door. “Apparently, he knew all along.”

“He knew?” Jord’s hand paused on his leather breastplate and frowned, clearly thinking back. “He knew. Of course he did.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Lucky for you, I suppose, that the Prince isn’t easily surprised.”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“For keeping your secret?” Jord shrugged, expression wry. “I am clearly too trustworthy with the secrets of others.” He dipped the polishing cloth in the jar of oil and rubbed gleaming circles on the breastplate.

“I meant for telling me about the dungeons, here in Fortaine. They were well hidden – I might not have found him otherwise. I certainly wouldn’t have known where to start.”

“Ah.” Jord’s hand stilled on the breastplate, oil gleaming on his fingers. “Yes. Aimeric mentioned once that there were older dungeons, deep underground, that no one remembers anymore.” His eyes were fixed on the far wall. “He told me that as a child he was afraid of the dark and so one day he went down into the old dungeons, the darkest place he knew, and put out his torch.”

Damen shivered despite himself. He had not himself ever been afraid of the dark, but he knew the power of childhood fears. With a pulse of pity he thought of the determined, brave boy Aimeric had been – unforgiving of his own weaknesses – and felt regret for the bold, driven man Aimeric could have grown into. Had grown into, he supposed, although his courage and ambition had been misplaced.

“I asked him what he was afraid of now, and he said nothing.” Jord’s mouth twisted bitterly. “But that’s not true. What frightens someone enough to make them kill themselves?”

“The Regent,” Damen said grimly.

Jord flinched a little. “I would kill him myself for what he did to Aimeric. I didn’t want to believe it but. Thinking back.”

“You couldn’t have guessed. You didn’t even know the Regent had ever met him.”

“There were moments... little things. He was always so startled by kindness.” Jord swallowed, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I should have known.”

Looking down at the scarred and dusty floor, Damen thought about his brother, crowned in the Kingsmeet, about Jokaste standing over him in the slave baths, and wondered what else he was too blind or trusting to see. Instead he said, “I’m sorry.”

Jord nodded. His head was bent and Damen couldn’t see his face. After a long moment Damen turned and left the barracks.

 

Hungry, Damen followed his nose to the kitchens, a sweltering, low building behind the castle proper, belching smoke out of its three chimneys. He collected meat and cheese for himself and a bowl of broth for Laurent, thinking of Paschal’s admonitions on fluids. Chewing a slice of cold venison, he carried the tray up to the royal quarters.

He met Paschal in the hall coming out of the Prince’s room. “Ah good,” he said, looking at the tray, “You can take that into him and make sure he eats it.”

“Ah, I’m, uh, not sure he wants to see me. If you could...”

“Is that Damianos?” Laurent called through the half-open door. “Send him in.” Paschal raised his eyebrows.

Bracing himself, Damen stepped inside.

“Close the door,” Laurent ordered.

He elbowed it shut, trepidation increasing.

“Don’t just stand there,” Laurent said, pushing back the sheets and swinging his legs out of bed. He was wearing a long night shirt, laced at the neck so it could be loosened. “Put that down and bring my clothes.”

Damen put the tray on a table by the window. “Paschal said you should stay in bed.”

 _“Thank_ you, that is why Paschal is not here. It is imperative that I see Guion before anyone else gets to him.” His voice was clipped, impersonal.

The clothes Laurent had been captured in had been washed and returned, the torn shoulder mended. The brown bloodstains had not entirely come out of the white shirt, but the dark blue jacket and trousers did not show it.

Damen carried the folded pile over. “You don’t want one of the others to accompany you instead...”

Laurent shook his head. “Guion’s a border lord, he’ll recognize the Kyros of Delpha. And I feel it is unwise to let Jord get too close to Aimeric’s father. It has to be you and Lazar.”

“You don’t think he’ll recognize me?” Damen asked, like probing at a sore tooth.

“If he didn’t already know who you were when he delivered you to me, then he’s not going to recognize you now. If he already knows who you are,” Laurent shrugged, tugging at the laces of the night shirt. “He’s seen you at my side in slave cuffs already. It makes no difference.”

Moving awkwardly because of his shoulder, he ducked his head and pulled the night shirt off, leaving him naked except for the bandage. The knife was clearly not the only punishment he had suffered. There were purple and green bruises mottling his ribs and the red marks of rope burn at his wrists. With a sudden surge of nausea Damen thought of Govart in the ring, Govart with the stable boy, and wondered sickly if he had hurt Laurent in other ways. Surely not. Not the prince.

Dropping the shirt to the ground and Laurent raised his eyes to Damen’s. “Attend me.” His voice was icy, as hard and cold as it had been that first time in the baths, but Damen heard the danger in it more clearly now than he had then.

His heart was pounding. It wasn’t fear, not of Laurent anyway. More fear of breaking something fragile and precious. If it was not already broken.

If it had ever truly existed in the first place.

He held out the bloodstained white shirt, and Laurent lowered his head so that Damen could place it around his neck. He winced very slightly as he shrugged his arms through the sleeves. Damen’s fingers grazed the warm skin of his good shoulder. They were standing close enough to hear one another breathe.

Laurent pulled on the trousers himself, and was once again covered entirely, except for his bare feet on the stones.

The jacket was too tight to get into without lifting the injured shoulder or pulling the laces entirely out of the front. Damen unlaced it, and held it open for Laurent to step into, feeling the stiff boning beneath the fine fabric. It closed around the Prince like armor, and he began to rethread the lacing through the eyelets. His fingers fumbled, and Laurent grew impatient. “Leave it,” he snapped. “Bring my boots.”

His riding boots were behind the bed, still splattered with dried mud. When he returned with them, Laurent already had the jacket halfway laced.

Hands still moving nimbly on the laces, he sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted his toes. “Well?”

Afternoon light shone in his bright hair, gold as a crown. The cuff was heavy on Damen’s wrist. Across the room, a breeze stirred the curtains. Nothing else moved.

Damen towered over the Prince seated on the bed, but Laurent made no concession to the difference in power except to tilt his chin up slightly. His face was set, impassive. A challenge; an accusation.

Damen knelt.

Taking Laurent’s ankle in his hand, he felt the narrow, delicate bones shift as he worked the snug leather onto his foot. He was practically between Laurent’s knees. If he had leaned forward a handspan, he could have pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. His heart was pounding as he slipped on the other boot and began to tighten the laces.

Glancing up, he saw that Laurent’s mask of indifference had slipped. There was a flicker of something surprised and vulnerable on his face – the same expression he had worn in the dungeon when he had first caught sight of Damen. Then it was gone, ruthlessly smothered beneath his impassive composure.

Finished, Damen sat back on his heels and cleared his throat. Laurent looked way.

 

They collected Lazar and proceeded through the castle toward the dungeons. No one stopped them, although a number of people watched them with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright suspicion.

Laced up to the collar in his dark clothes that didn’t show the bloodstains, no one would be able to tell from the way he carried himself that Laurent was injured. His shoulders were held stiffly and his stride was even.

Down in the chill darkness of the ancient dungeons, the sound of their footsteps echoed.

“Who’s there?” Guion called.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Laurent drawled. “It seems no one has begun to miss you. Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone so often on secret errands for my uncle.”

“You.” There was a scrape of stone and wood as Guion gripped the bars of the cell door, rattling it on its heavy hinges. “You will be tried for treason and executed. I will see your head hung on the palace gate at Arles.” His face showed his imprisonment – he was dirty and pale, with stubble growing in on his cheeks.

Laurent sighed. “Is Govart still alive?”

“The brute? He’s delirious.”

Producing a key from inside his jacket, Laurent jerked his head toward the door. “Get him out, make sure Guion stays inside.”

Damen and Lazar glanced at one another as Laurent slid the key into the lock. Guion was a solidly built man still fit for his age, but he was no professional soldier. He stepped back as the two of them stepped into the cell. His eyes were narrowed but he didn’t make a move toward the door. Govart on the other hand was a bear of a man as big as Damen and easily heavier, lying glassy eyed in the far corner of the cell. For a moment Damen thought he was dead, but his chest was rising and falling gently.

Keeping his eyes carefully on Guion, Damen stepped toward him and hauled him by both arms, giving up on getting him to his feet and instead settling on dragging him bodily out of the cell.

“What are you going to do with him?” Guion asked as Damen dumped Govart in the corridor, panting, and Lazar hastily shut the cell door.

“Something useful,” Laurent said, poking at Govart’s face with his boot, until his head lolled to the side. There was dried blood on his temple, Damen saw in the flickering torch light.

Guion curled his hands around the cell bars. “And how long do you plan to leave me here? They will realize I am missing. How long do you think you can hide me, once they start searching in earnest?”

Laurent tilted his head, as if considering this. “Well, the human body cannot live more than three or four days without water. So there’s your timeline right there.”

“Your uncle will be here by then. He will claim Charcy and march on to Fortaine.”

“Where he expects to find me captive and helpless, no doubt. How disappointed he will be when he finds you were not clever enough to hold me? Do you think he’ll kill another of your sons?”

Guion snarled and swore. Laurent just watched as he pressing his slammed his fists against the bars, face twisted grotesquely, spitting Veretian curses that were outside of Damen’s vocabulary. Turning on his heel, Laurent strode away down the corridor, leaving Damen and Lazar to drag Govart’s prone body after him. Guion’s voice echoed behind them.

They made slow progress up the stairs, wrestling Govart’s bulk around the narrow turns of the stairwell, and Laurent behind them pausing to rest frequently and pretend he wasn’t breathing hard. When they reached the top, Laurent leaned against the hidden door. “Lazar, take Govart to the barracks and find him a bed. Tell Paschal I need him alive and awake. Damen, with me.”

Back in the corridor outside his room, Laurent stopped and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed for so long that Damen began the shift nervously and wonder if he should fetch Paschal. Laurent cracked an eye open and glared at him as if reading his mind, pushing himself upright and gesturing to the door. Damen opened it and Laurent swept through, as upright and calm as if he hadn’t been panting in pain moments before.

Lady Loyse was standing at the window. She turned in a swirl of skirts as they entered and dropped into a deep curtsey. “Your Highness Prince Laurent.”

“Lady Loyse. Please, sit.” He gestured to a low couch and sank down opposite her. “Water? I’m afraid I haven’t any wine.” The tray Damen had brought from the kitchen was still on the table. Laurent flicked his fingers toward it, and Damen went automatically to pick up two cups. He told himself he was playing a role for Guion’s wife. She didn’t know who he was; he was not Prince Damianos here. A small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Nikandros said, _you are always Prince Damianos._

Laurent was tugging on the laces of his jacket. Loyse averted her eyes, Veretian customs of propriety holding even between a middle-aged mother and a boy young enough to be her son. Damen supposed that the reason he was still in the room was to act as a chaperone. “Please, pardon me, Lady Loyse. My shoulder pains me and the jacket is stiff.” Laces open down his chest, Laurent held out his arms for Damen to help him out of the garment.

As Damen tugged the sleeve off Laurent’s bad arm, Laurent winced noticeably and let out a hiss. Damen had not seen him react so strongly to the pain even when Laurent was so weak with blood loss he could hardly stand.

Lady Loyse flinched too, and stared at his shoulder. His undershirt was thin enough to show the bandage underneath, fresh blood seeping through it. “My husband did this to you?”

“Only by proxy.” Easing himself back on the couch, Laurent grimaced again. “Like many things your husband does, the ultimate blame lies with my uncle.”

Damen saw Loyse’s knuckles tighten around her cup, and noticed the bob of her throat as she swallowed. “That is forgiving of you.”

“Pragmatic. Guion and I are to be allies.”

“Indeed? How did you convince him of that?”

“I can be persuasive.” Laurent’s lips thinned. “It runs in the family.”

She looked down quickly. “Yes. I supposed it does.”

“Lady Loyse, do you remember my mother’s funeral?”

Startled, she glanced up.

“Of course. Like it was yesterday. You were so young.”

“Yes. But I remember you were friends with my mother. You visited her often during her illness."

“You were always there,” Loyse said softly. “You hated to leave her side.”

“At the time I thought her death was the most painful thing I would ever experience.” His mouth twitched humorlessly. “Foolish of me, of course. Now when I think about her, I am glad that no one was to blame for her death except the cruelty of nature. I wish I could say as much for my father and brother.” He took a sip of water. “It is so much easier, cleaner, to mourn a death like that, than to tangle grief for the dead with hatred for the living.”

Damen felt a cold shiver pour down his spine. Loyse’s hands were trembling. She put down the cup and clasped them together in her lap.

“You knew of the arrangement, didn’t you? That your husband and the Regent tangled Aimeric up in?” Laurent’s voice was calm and casual, almost indifferent. “Although I’m sure they never intended for him to kill himself over it."

Loyse made a small, choked noise, and pressed a hand against her mouth.

“But I have upset you," Laurent continued delicately. “I’m sorry. I only meant to convey my sympathy. It must be doubly hard to mourn Aimeric when the Regent still sits on my throne.”

There was a silence, filled with the sound of Lady Loyse breathing heavily. Damen’s heart was pounding, feeling sick, as if he had taken a blow to the stomach. Laurent was perfectly composed.

“Lady Loyse,” he said softly. “My uncle is a danger not only to young boys but to the whole kingdom of Vere. He is a war-monger and a tyrant, who has no intention of seeing me safely on the throne. You know that, don’t you?”

Eyes fixed on the floor, Loyse nodded minutely.

“Then I ask you, in the name of your loyalty to my mother and your love for Vere, to lend me all the aid that is in your power to give against my uncle and, if need be, your husband.” His voice was soft but steely. “Ask yourself, are you more frightened of the Regent, or of what he will do if he wins?”

Sunlight spilled across the flagstones and made Laurent’s hair gleam like a golden helm. Lady Loyse took a breath. “Your highness, I am yours.”

Laurent swirled the water in his glass. “You will not regret your loyalty to the true crown.” Damen let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Instruct me, your highness.” She was still not looking at him, staring down at the flagstones.

“You will not fly the royal standard over the battlements, nor announce my presence formally. My stay here is to be a strictly kept secret from those outside these walls, save messengers whom I appoint. Who normally handles correspondence in and out of the fort?”

“My husband’s steward,” Loyse said.

“In Guion’s absence, does he report to you?”

“To Rueven, your highness.”

Laurent hummed. “That won’t do. Make up an excuse. You will review any missives leaving for mentions of me. Otherwise the flow of information should remain unaltered. My uncle will note any change. Additionally, any correspondence from the Regent should come to me before being delivered to its recipient. That will be all for now.”

Loyse nodded, twisting her hands in her lap, but didn’t move. “Your highness?”

“Yes?”

“Is my husband truly still alive?” She lifted her gaze to look at the Prince.

The vivid morning light made his pale complexion look wan and tired, but his voice was sharp and precise as he said, “When this is over, as a reward for your loyalty, I shall let you decide that.”

When the door shut behind her, Damen breathed out hard. He was lightheaded and a little nauseous from the brutality of Laurent’s gambit and he hadn’t been the one directly receiving it.

He had seen Laurent win allies before – Torveld with sweet smiles and charm, his soldiers with his skill and tenacity. Damen himself had been won somewhere along the way between Nesson and Ravenel with Laurent’s unexpected competence, his dry humor, and flashes of honesty. Now he had seen Laurent capture another piece on his uncle’s board – with manipulation as precise and cruel as the point of a knife. Just like the Regent.

“Did she deserve that?” he asked.

Rising to his feet, Laurent stood glaring at the bed with his back to Damen. “She let her husband sell their youngest son into the Regent’s clutches. Whether or not she wanted to, she didn’t stop it.” He shrugged. “If there was truly nothing she could have done, then that thought will be a comfort. If she could have intervened and didn’t, then this is the punishment she deserves.” Damen couldn’t see his face, but his voice changed, the musing tone taking on a dark edge. “Do you think my uncle fucked him in this bed?”

Damen’s stomach flipped.

Back still turned, Laurent said, “Leave me.” After a long moment, Damen did.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that afternoon, Damen cornered Paschal. “I want to talk to you.”

Paschal inclined his head slightly. Nikandros would have had a fit to see the lack of respect. “Here?”

They were standing in the hall, Jord on guard outside Laurent’s door. “Not here. In your rooms?”

Paschal led him to the small room where he had been quartered. Bottles and jars were lined up on the table, along with bundles of leaves and a basket of flowers. There was pallet pushed against the wall, and on it was the slumbering form of Govart, hands bound securely and head bandaged.

“Has he woken?” Damen asked.

“Yes, but he has been delirious. Head injuries are tricky things. Some people die from a tap in the wrong place, others can have their skulls split open and survive. Only time will tell.” Paschal gestured for him to sit and said, “If you’d like to make yourself useful, I could use a hand chopping these herbs.”

Absently, Damen picked up the knife from the table and began to slice the bundle of leaves Paschal had indicated. It was work that had always happened invisibly in his life – salves for sore muscles and tea for a headache had appeared in the hands of a slave with no thought to how they were made. He thought in another life he might have like prenticing with a physician. As a prince and a king he could protect his people; to help them heal was another kind of protection. Except...

“You were physician to the Regent?”

Paschal, who had his back to Damen, leaning over the table, froze. “I was.”

“And to his boys?”

Slowly, Paschal straightened and turned. “Your majesty?” It was the first time Damen had heard the physician address him by rank.

“You heard me.”

Paschal dropped his gaze. “I was sometimes called upon to attend one of his... his boys, yes.”

Damen’s knuckles whitened on the knife handle. “You knew. What he did to them.”

“It was hardly a secret. But, yes. I knew... better than others.”

“And you continued in his service?” Damen’s voice was low and hard.

“What was I to do? Smuggle the boys away? Kill the Regent myself? Perhaps I should have, a better man might have. I.” He saw Paschal’s throat bob as he swallowed. “I have never claimed to be a brave man. I gave them what help I could. It seemed better than... walking away.”

“What help?”

“Salves, mostly.” Paschal grimaced and Damen winced, nausea twisting his throat.

“You have to understand.” Paschal shook his head. “The Regent is skilled at tricking the boys into... liking his attention. They are enamored, defensive of him. At least for a little while. They tolerate his... physical overtures in exchange for treats, gifts, attention, praise.”

“And you could do nothing to change their minds?”

“Imagine trying to take Nicaise anywhere he doesn’t want to go.” He said wryly, and then his voice faltered. “Didn’t. Didn’t want to go. He twists the boys so thoroughly that all their loyalty is to him, and they turn their own suffering and shame on themselves. Any dark feelings or fears they have are their own failings, not because of him. You heard Aimeric protesting that the Regent loved him.”

Damen thought about that night at Ravenel; Aimeric red and then white with rage and shame. _He loves me!_ His stomach contracted.

Paschal, looking down, traced a hand along the edge of the table. “It is a toxic and powerful manipulation. I have seen it work on...” he hesitated. “Even the brightest, most intelligent boys. Some of them realize his game, but even then it is difficult to shake, I think. That feeling of blame.”

All Damen could see was Laurent, standing over Aimeric blazing with icy fury. He hadn’t seen Laurent like that since the whipping post. “The Prince... he blamed Aimeric.”

“Ah.” Paschal breathed out. Damen looked up, waiting for him to continue, but the physician said nothing.

“Laurent is... was kind to Nicaise. Why would he be so angry at Aimeric? They were both... they both...”

Paschal pressed his lips together as if wondering how to answer. Finally he said, “Prince Laurent... his uncle provokes in a way little else can. Do not judge him too harshly for how he reacts to the Regent’s games.”

Damen wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t know how to ask the next question and Paschal said no more.

 

Damen undressed for bed in the barracks with Nikandros and Jord. Laurent hadn’t sent for him and Damen hadn’t expected him too. Waking beside Laurent that morning, watching him laugh with Paschal, seemed unbelievably far away. _He knew who I am. He knew the whole time_.

There was a tight thread tangled around Damen’s ribs, aching whenever he thought about Laurent. He had watched Laurent crack open, spilling some of the pain and fury that he held so close, and then shut himself back up; like stitching a wound, like barring a door. All of his hatred for Damianos, Prince Killer, brutally forced down under iron self-control once again, because Damen was still useful to his scheme against his uncle.

It was no different than it had been all along, except that it was, because Damen’s name – his crown, his identity – lay between them as cold and unforgiving as a blade. There was no more pretense to protect the delicate companionship they had built.

 _I never lied to you_ , he had told Laurent. Avoiding Nikandros’ concerned glances as he took off his jacket, Damen tried to tell himself he still believed that.

“Do you think Makedon is still keeping the peace at Ravenel?” Damen said to distract himself, bending to unlace his boots.  

Nikandros, who was wearing Veretian garb for their disguise, glared down at the laces on his jacket. “I’d give even odds that he’ll have set the place on fire by the time we return.”

“We’d have seen the smoke,” Damen smiled.

“How long are we going to stay here playing this game, Damen?” Nikandros asked wearily.

“It’s not a game.”

“I mean,” Nikandros rolled his eyes, “Waiting on the whims of some spoiled prince with a secret plan he doesn’t want to share.”

Damen huffed out a frustrated breath. “If the Regent is meddling in Akielos, then Laurent is our best weapon against him.”

“Yes, but we only have his word that his uncle is involved.”

“Do you really think Kastor could have orchestrated the coup on his own?”

Nikandros scowled and yanked the jacket over his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean it was the Regent of Vere. Kastor has his own clever ice bitch.”

Damen kicked off his boots with more force than necessary. “Jokaste stood to gain nothing from sending me as a slave to Vere. Neither she nor Kastor had any reason for going to that trouble and risk when they could easily have killed me. The only person that could have benefited was the Regent.”

“Or the Prince.”

“What?”

“Don’t you think the man who famously hates you for killing his brother might jump at the chance to have his worst enemy at his mercy? He did admit that he knew who you were from the beginning.”

“No. No, it wasn’t Laurent. You didn’t see his face when they first showed me to him. He was shocked. You don’t know his uncle.”

“I’m just saying... I’d feel better if we were back with Makedon at Ravenel. Or even at Marlas. Inside the walls of a fort with our own army instead of trapped here surrounded by enemies.”

“Not all enemies.” Damen tugged his shirt over his head and Nikandros, behind him, made a strangled noise.

“What-?” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Nikandros standing frozen, staring at his back. Damen flushed. He was unused to thinking of the scars on his back. Thanks to Paschal’s insistence on salves, they didn’t hurt or pull, even during the most strenuous sword work. He knew there was scarring across his shoulders and down his back almost to his hips, but he had never taken a mirror to look at himself.

Now, he didn’t need to. Nikandros’ stare was mirror enough – more shocked and livid than the first time he had seen the wrist-band. Lifting a hand, his fingers fluttered over the scars, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. His voice was hushed, horrified. “Who did this to you?”

Damen pressed his lips together.

“ _Who did this_?” When Damen didn’t respond, he turned on Jord, standing frozen beside his own bunk. “Who did this to him?” Jord’s eyes were wide.

“Laurent!” Damen said. “Laurent, alright? And I know, I _know-_ ” He held up his hands placatingly.

“You _don’t_ ,” Nikandros snarled. “What the hell are you thinking, Damen?             An alliance? A _lover?_ After he flayed the skin off your back? He could have killed you!”

“But he didn’t. It’s over, it’s in the past.”

“ _In the past_? You’ll have those scars for the rest of your life!”

“And he’ll never have a brother!

“How can you defend him?” Nikandros shouted. Huffing a breath, he turned his back, arms crossed tightly across his chest, head lowered.

“Nikandros...” Damen reached out, concerned.

Shaking his head sharply, Nikandros pulled his arm away when Damen touched him. His chest rose and fell. “When I served at the Kingsmeet,” he said softly, still looking down, “I took an oath to love, serve, and protect the rightful kings of Akielos. I already failed you once.”

“You didn’t, you tried to warn me...”

“That’s what I’m _saying_ ,” Nikandros snapped. “I can guard you in peace and ride beside you in war, but I cannot protect you from _yourself_.” His voice broke, and Damen’s chest squeezed.

“Old friend,” he murmured. This time, when he put his hand on Nikandros shoulder, Nikandros leaned into him and let Damen fold him in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you’re wrong about Laurent.”

Nikandros made a noise against his shoulder, and pressed both hands flat to Damen’s back, over the scars.

 

The next morning, Damen was sparring with Nikandros in the yard, aware of the watchful eyes of Guion’s men on them, when Lazar arrived and announced that Laurent wanted them both. “Tell him we’re on our way.” Damen wiped sweat from his face with a rag and ignored Nikandros’ unhappy expression.

Laurent was seated at his desk, sitting impeccably upright despite his shoulder. There was a teenage boy in muddy clothes, smelling distinctly of horses, standing nervously before him. When Damen and Nikandros entered with Lazar behind them, Laurent nodded to the boy. “You may go.” He bowed and scrambled from the room.

“Lazar,” Laurent said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Take these names and locate them. Have them confined to their quarters and see that they are not able to pass messages.”

When Lazar had gone too, Laurent sat back in his chair, not quite grimacing but moving his shoulder gingerly.

“Well?” Nikandros said. “Are you going to tell us the plan now, or are you going to continue using the rightful King of Akielos as a pawn to be kept in the dark, like you kept him as a slave after you _flayed the skin from his back_?”

Laurent’s face went momentarily still, before relaxing into impassive insouciance. “Not personally. I only gave the order.”

Fists clenched, Nikandros looked at Damen, and Damen’s stomach rolled at the fury in his face. “This is truly who you have chosen as an ally?”

“I have,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady.

“You see? He has forgiven me for the small matter of the whip. I have forgiven him for the small matter of Auguste.” The dead prince’s name fell like a stone in Damen’s gut. Laurent’s voice was brittle and precise. “All praise the alliance.”

Nikandros’ chest rose and fell visibly as he struggled with his temper. “You could have the humanity to act sorry.”

Laurent raised his eyebrows, expression mild, and Damen braced himself. “You want me to say I did not enjoy it? I did. I counted the lashes and waited for him to die.” Nikandros face was pale with fury under his dark complexion, making his face sallow and sick-looking. “I am not sorry for it.”

“How can you stand there and listen to this?” Nikandros asked Damen, voice low.

Damen swallowed. Laurent’s sharp edges no longer bothered him, but Nikandros’ hurt fury felt like a stitch in his side.

Before he could respond, Laurent said, cool and precise: “Tell me Kyros: when you believed Damianos dead, if you had had Kastor on his knees before you, what would you have done? If you could have been free of the consequences of killing a king, would you have shown him any mercy?”

Nikandros’ jaw worked, eyes narrow. “I would have killed him cleanly,” he said finally. Damen felt his stomach roll at the thought. Traitor or not, Kastor was his brother. Nikandros’ voice was hard and sure. “I would have put my sword through his neck but it would have been fast.”

“Ah, well,” Laurent said lightly. “Put it down to stylistic differences then. Are you ready speak of matters of real import, Kyros?”

Breathing hard, Nikandros crossed his arms. “Hear this, Prince of Vere: if anything ever happens to Damen, there will be nothing between my blade and you.”

Laurent sniffed. “Rest assured Damianos is more use to be alive than dead.” Damen felt a shiver down his spine at the sound of his name in Laurent’s mouth. “Now, the real issue. My uncle even now has troops marching on Charcy. He meant to trap half my men there after ambushing me, decimating my force and discrediting me with my allies.” The flare of Nikandros’ nostrils said clearly that Laurent had done an excellent job of that all on his own. “By now his troops will have arrived, and sent messengers back to him that no one came to meet them.”

“What will he think when he gets the message?” Damen asked.

Laurent smiled a sharp smile. “He will think I have misjudged my new allies. That you abandoned me to my fate and took Ravenel for yourselves. I doubt he will bother approaching it – his sortie has not the men nor the time to go about retaking the fort and in any case it will be irrelevant when all of Akielos is in his hands anyway.”

Nikandros made a soft sound in his throat.

“No, the soldiers at Charcy are just a distraction, a means of luring me out of my defensible position.” He tipped his head very slightly toward Damen, and Damen remembered standing over the maps in their room in Ravenel – _you can’t go to Charcy,_ he’d said. _You let your uncle make the rules. Play his games like you want to show him you can._ Damen nodded slightly back and Laurent looked away, mouth turning down.

“My uncle is unlikely even to be with the troops at Charcy. No doubt he is staying close to Kastor’s side and Guion was meant to bring me to him at Ios. However, I have unfortunately been injured too badly to travel.” Laurent smiled sweetly at them both. “I provoked Govart past all reason and he nearly killed me. I’m sure my uncle will believe that. When he learns I cannot be moved safely, he will come to deal with me in person.”

“And what is our role in this?” Nikandros asked slowly.

“I need you to take Fortaine.”

Nikandros made a strangled, furious noise. Damen huffed out a laugh. “With five men?”

“Use your creativity,” Laurent said sourly. “You have a whole army a day’s ride away in Ravenel. When my uncle enters the courtyard here, I want him surrounded by my men."

“You mean to ambush him?”

Laurent raised his chin. “I mean to execute him.” He met Damen’s gaze briefly, and then looked back at his papers. “It’s my game now, on my board. We will play it out here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter lives up to the Drama TM of the last one *facepalm*  
> I am so delighted so many of you are loving this fic, thank you for all your kind words and enthusiasm!


	7. Chapter 7

“I don’t like this,” Nikandros muttered, cinching the saddle strap.

“There’s no one else who can go,” Damen said for the dozenth time. “Makedon won’t take orders from a Veretian.”

“ _You_ could go,” Nikandros grumbled, “And I could stay with the snake.”

“I’m staying with Laurent,” Damen repeated. “You’ll be back in two days anyway. I’ve been alone with him for longer.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” The mare’s hooves rang on the cobbles of the courtyard as Nikandros led her out of the stable into the sunlight. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“I would never,” Damen smiled, and slung an arm around Nikandros’ shoulders. “Good luck, old friend.”

Squeezing him back, Nikandros nodded, and then swung up in the saddle. The portcullis clattered and groaned as it was raised, and Damen stood watching his friend gallop away until he was out of sight over the hill.

“I thought I would find you here.” He turned sharply and saw Laurent, sun blazing in his hair, hands clasped behind his back. “Was he very difficult about leaving you with me?”

“No thanks to you,” Damen said. “Why did you have to provoke him like that?”

“Provoke him?” Laurent said innocently.

Damen rolled his eyes. “Don’t.”

Laurent turned away, boots clacking on the cobbled courtyard. “He cares for you very much. You ought to listen to him more.”

“He wants me to abandon the alliance,” Damen said, following him.

“Yes. I’m sure if I were your friend I would tell you the same thing.” Laurent lengthened his stride, not looking at Damen.

“Oughtn’t my allies be my friends too?” Damen said, and watched Laurent’s head twitch, like he had almost turned to look at Damen. But he said nothing, just continued walking, making Damen speed up to keep pace with him.

People stared as they crossed the keep, some of the bowing to their Prince, others watching warily. Damen followed Laurent into the sweltering, aromatic bustle of the kitchens, where one of the head cooks was immediately curtseying.

“A tray of whatever you’ve got leftover and a pitcher of water,” Laurent ordered. Before long a young woman offered a laden tray to Damen, who took it automatically, and then frowned.

When they stepped outside, he muttered, “I don’t have to fetch and carry for you anymore, you know.”

Laurent raised a pale eyebrow. “My shoulder is injured. I couldn’t possibly carry a tray.”

Damen snorted. He had seen Laurent fight drugged and injured. He had no doubt that the light tray would be no impediment, but Laurent was looking at him with a faint trace of amusement and he couldn’t bring himself to protest.

They were headed toward the dungeons, Damen realized. He looked down at the tray of food he was carrying. “Decided to have mercy on him?”

Laurent’s voice was brisk. “Guion can decide if he’s ready to have mercy on himself.”

At the hidden doorway, Laurent shoved the door open with his good shoulder. Stepping in after him, Damen blinked in the dimness of the torches after the brilliant afternoon light. The cool scent of deep earth enveloped him, rot and stone. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

Guion was on his feet when they reached the bottom, face pressed against the bars. He had lost weight just in a few days, his eyes sunken and dark in his skull, skin dry and brittle looking. When he saw the tray Damen was carrying he licked his lips.

“What do you want?” he rasped, eyes fixed on the pitcher of water.

“Just one thing,” Laurent said calmly. “Your seal ring.”

Guion cursed at him, but his voice was weak. Laurent didn’t bother repeating himself as Guion trailed off into silence, just stood examining his nails in the flickering torchlight. Then Guion held out his hand, ring gleaming on his palm.

Plucking it from his grasp, Laurent tossed it between his hands, and then drew the key to the cell from his pocket. “Feed him,” he said. Tossing the key onto the tray, he turned and strode away.

Laurent was gone by the time Damen had unlocked the cell, set down the tray, and locked the door again. Damen didn’t stay to watch Guion fall upon the food and water like... well, like a starving man.

He overtook Laurent at the top of the stairs, catching his breath again. He straightened up quickly when Damen appeared and glared at him, but it was a peevish expression at being caught in a weakness rather than his truly venomous scowl.

Laurent didn’t dismiss him, so Damen followed him back to his room where Jord was on guard. Inside, Laurent went to the desk and pulled out a folded letter. Then he picked up a candle and crossed to the brazier by the bed, still with coals glowing in it, and lit the candle, carrying it back to the desk with his hand cupping the flame and orange light jumping on his cheeks.

“That’s the letter to your uncle?” Damen asked.

Holding a stick of sealing wax over the candle, Laurent let a thick blob fall on the crease of the letter. “The bait,” he agreed absently, watching the crimson wax pool and run.

“Will your uncle believe that it’s Guion’s hand?”

“Forgery is easy.” Laurent pressed the seal ring into the wax, and sat back. “Jord?”

The door creaked as Jord entered. “Yes, your highness?”

“Take this to Lady Loyse, and tell her to see that the palace steward mails it immediately.” He held the letter up.

When the door closed behind Jord, Damen leaned his hip against the table. “Now what?”

Leaning down, Laurent blew out the candle, and a thin ribbon of smoke curled up around him, caressing his cheeks. He lifted his eyes and met Damen’s gaze steadily. “Now we wait.”

The moment stretched between them. A breeze stirred the gauzy curtains. Outside, a dog barked. Afternoon light drew long shadows across the floor, and Laurent’s pale lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. His lips were pink, his eyes intensely blue.

Damen thought suddenly, urgently, of taking him to bed. His pulse jumped and he felt his body begin to respond.

Watching him, a curious look crossed Laurent’s face. “Well?” he said, tongue flickering out to wet his lips.

Damen’s eyes dropped to Laurent’s mouth. “Kiss me.”

Laurent blinked and looked away, sitting rigidly upright at the desk. “You think I am so eager to repeat the indignity of going to bed with you?” His words were sharp but there was an edge of something rough in his tone. “That having had you once, I would forget myself, my crown, my _brother_ , and spread my legs again for an enemy prince?”

“No.” Laurent’s eyes flickered toward him. Damen let the corner of his mouth lift. “No, I don’t think you would. Because I am neither of those things.” Feeling daring, blood singing, Damen lifted one finger and brushed it over the sharp crest of Laurent’s cheekbone. Laurent’s eyelashes fluttered but he made no other movement. “I am not your enemy. And I am a king.”

Laurent’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Do you really think,” he began.

“Yes.” As his finger slid down Laurent’s cheek he felt the warm, damp gust of his breath. “Yes.” Leaning down slowly, Damen tipped Laurent’s chin up, watching his soft lips part.

“No.” The word was harsh. Damen froze, and then straightened, releasing the prince. Laurent’s jaw was set, cheeks flushed. He was not looking at Damen, staring instead across the room at nothing.

Damen’s pulse was pounding in his ears, his laced Veretian trousers feeling tight. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he stepped back. “Alright.”

Laurent glanced at him sharply. Damen could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his jacket. His hands were clenched on his knees, knuckles white. “Alright,” Damen repeated, shrugging his shoulders. He wanted Laurent so badly it felt like a thorn in his ribs, but Laurent had said no. A faint frown creased Laurent’s brow and his lips pursed. Damen looked away. “I’ll go.”

“No,” Laurent said again, and then swore in Veretian, pushing back his chair so that it toppled behind him as he stood. He pressed one hand against Damen’s sternum, and he stumbled back, surprised. Curling his fist in the laces of Damen’s jacket, Laurent walked him backward across the room until his knees hit the bed and he sat. Tipping his head back to look up at Laurent, Damen felt his cock throb.

The last time Laurent had stood over him like this had been at Ravenel, his last night wearing the slave collar. The look in Laurent’s eyes was the same as it had been that night – intense, dark with anger and desire and something else unreadable, buried deep. Laurent had known all along. His heart thumped painfully against his ribs.

But the last time they had been like this, Laurent had been fully dressed, immaculate, as he touched Damen’s cock. Now he was unlacing his trousers with swift, nimble fingers.

“Take this off.” Laurent flicked his fingers at Damen’s clothes, and he scrambled to undress, fumbling with the laces and yanking the shirt over his head. His boots thumped on the floor and he tugged at his trousers, sighing as he slid the tight fabric over his thighs, freeing his cock.

Naked, he lay back, propping himself up on his elbows. Wearing only his white shirt, hanging low enough to provide an illusion of modesty, Laurent leaned over him and ran a finger from the base of his throat down the center of his chest, over his stomach, making Damen shiver. At the base of his cock he let his fingernail dig into sensitive flesh and Damen swore, cock twitching.

The mattress dipped as Laurent slid onto the bed above him, one knee on either side of his hips. The hem of his shirt brushed against Damen’s stomach, and the sensitive head of his cock. He brought his hands up to Laurent’s hips, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the hard jut of his bones and the yielding muscle of his ass, before Laurent seized both his hands and pressed them against the bed.

His face was dark, but when Damen rolled his hips up he felt Laurent’s erection brush against his own, beneath his shirt. Putting a hand on his chest, Laurent pushed him down sharply, and Damen let himself fall back. Laurent naked was not as insubstantial as he looked fully dressed, but he could easily free himself if he desired. He left his hands where they were on either side, but thrust up again against the teasing brush of Laurent’s cock.

“You want to fuck me again?” Laurent asked, voice silky and cold. “Is that it?”

The harsh tone made Damen frown. “No, I...”

“No, you don’t want to fuck me?” Laurent raised an eyebrow at his erection, curving up against his stomach.

“I do but... only if you want. Whatever you want.”

“What I want.” Laurent’s voice was icy but his cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. “I want my brother to have killed you at Marlas. I want to have never laid eyes on Damianos of Akielos.” His nails dug into Damen’s chest, leaving red slivers around his nipple, which was peaked and hard despite the pain. “I want to put a knife through your chest myself.” His hand was hot over Damen’s heart, his voice rough. “I hate you.”

Damen swallowed, tongue feeling thick. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Laurent hissed. “Sorry?”

“Laurent...”

His mouth twisted. “Don’t call me that.”

“ _Laurent,_ ” Damen said helplessly. He felt as if there was no other word in his whole head, as if he had never learned any other word. His chest was full of everything he wanted to say, but there was nothing on his tongue except Laurent’s name.

“Why are you like this?” It came out plaintive, making the prince sound suddenly young. “Why did you have to be like this?”

“Laurent,” Damen repeated. “Laurent.”

“Shut up,” Laurent breathed, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Damen groaned into his mouth, fingers digging into the sheets to stop himself from seizing Laurent’s face in both hands. It was a rough, aggressive kiss, all teeth and spit, nothing like the sweet, slow kisses they had traded at Ravenel, but Damen opened for him hungrily. Sliding his hands up Laurent’s chest, he tugged at his shirt until Laurent reared back and yanked it off, and then leaned in to bite at his mouth again.

 _A kingdom, or this_ , Damen thought hazily, their bare chests pressed together, and kissed Laurent until his lips were tender and swollen from being bitten, both their chins slick with spit. Laurent was rocking in his lap, breathing in harsh, quick gasps, fingers digging painfully into his wrists. Damen’s own chest was heaving, and his cock ached, leaking clear fluid onto his stomach.

Breaking away from his mouth with a soft groan that Damen felt between their bodies more than heard, Laurent released one of his hands to reach for the bottle of oil beside the bed. “Don’t move," Laurent ordered, pulling out the cork with his teeth, and spilling viscous golden liquid over his fingers.

Damen curled his hands in the sheets to keep from reaching out and let himself drink in the sight of Laurent arching over him, eyes squeezed shut as he prepared himself. The muscles and ribs on his milky-white chest stood out, thighs flexing as he leaned back in Damen’s lap. His nipples and lips were shockingly pink.

The muscles in his arm shifted as he worked his fingers into himself. Damen could hear the wet, sloppy sounds it made, and his cock throbbed in anticipation. When Laurent’s slick fingers closed around him he bucked up and groaned. “Be still,” Laurent snapped, but his voice was unsteady.

Fighting to obey, Damen breathed deeply as Laurent guided the head of his cock to his slick hole. The first press made them both gasp.

Laurent’s head was tipped back, eyes closed, as he settled fully on Damen’s cock.

“Look at me,” Damen said, rolling his hips a little. “Laurent, look at me.” Breath hitching, Laurent’s eyes flew open. A wave of something hot and triumphant flooded through Damen, and he thrust up hard. Laurent knew who he was. Laurent was kneeling over him with dark eyes, and it was Damen he was looking at. His red, leaking cock bobbed between them, desire unmistakable.

Grunting, Damen seized Laurent’s hips in both hands and rolled them over, in a pervasion of a familiar wrestling move.

Laurent gasped, eyes going wide, as Damen’s cock pressed into him deeper at a new angle. His hands flew to Damen’s shoulders, clutching painfully. Getting his knees under Laurent’s hips he pulled Laurent more snuggly into his lap and thrust into him in earnest. Laurent drew a sharp breath that would have been a squeak in someone less controlled.

Leaning forward and letting his weight bent Laurent over, Damen began to thrust steadily. Each stroke made Laurent shudder, but his lips were pressed tightly together, he made no noise besides the rush of his breath. He’d turned his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, his whole body tense beneath Damen. The head of his cock rubbed against Damen’s stomach with each thrust, leaving sticky, wet traces on his skin.

Damen could feel his own cock leaking inside the exquisite grip of Laurent’s body and had to fight the urge to close his eyes. He didn’t want to miss any of Laurent’s tiny tells; the flutter of his lashes, the heaving of his chest, the flush that spread down his neck. Damen could feel tight heat coiling low in his gut, tightening his balls. Sweat was dripping down Damen’s back, and making his damp curls cling to his forehead. Laurent’s face was twisted up in what could have been silent agony except for the bounce of his hard cock between them.

Ducking his head, Damen bit one of his pink, tight nipples, and the frigid Prince of Vere bucked up against him, mouth opening on a soundless shout. He clenched around Damen’s cock and Damen shuddered.

“Laurent,” he gasped.

Laurent choked back a sound, a bitten-off word. His eyes were still squeezed shut and his lashes were damp, cheeks red. Damen’s heart was pounding. Laurent tossed his head on the pillow, tendons standing out in his neck, mouth tightly shut.

Damen groaned, curling down over Laurent’s torso. His whole body was singing, throbbing, as if there was light under his skin, burning him up from the inside.

“Laurent,” Damen panted, feeling his climax rushing up, struggling to hold it back as he thrust hard. “Laurent.”

Laurent arched, fingers digging painfully into Damen’s arms and gasped, “ _Damen_.”

Damen came suddenly, blindingly, shuddering as he pressing deep inside Laurent, hands gripping his hips.

Mewling, Laurent pushed back against him, clenching around his cock as Damen spilled inside him. Damen wrapped a hand around Laurent’s leaking cock, jerking him rapid and loose, holding himself still while Laurent squirmed on his still-hard cock.

His mouth was by Laurent’s ear. “Come for me, Laurent,” he whispered, and Laurent did, arching under him with a muffled gasp and spilling over Damen’s hand.

They slumped together on the bed. When Damen’s slick, sensitive cock slid out of Laurent they both hissed and shivered simultaneously. Laurent’s face was turned away. With his arm slung over Laurent’s shoulders, Damen felt that he was trembling. Damen made an inquisitive noise in his throat and pressed his nose against the back of Laurent’s neck.

The prince let out an unsteady breath and pushed Damen away.

Sitting up with a slight wince, Laurent kept his back to Damen as he left the bed, and crossed the room to the washbasin. He wiped himself clean with swift, perfunctory gestures, but he didn’t return to the bed. Instead, he stood over the basin with his hands braced on either side, head bowed. A thread of worry wound through Damen’s chest and he fought the warm lethargy in his limbs to sit up. “Laurent...?” he asked.

“Don’t.” Straightening, Laurent went to pick up his discarded clothing, still with his back to Damen. His voice was tight.

Closing his mouth, Damen sat up in bed, pulling the sheets up around his waist, and watched Laurent. Something ached under his sternum. Laurent pulled his jacket on over his bad shoulder with a stiff shrug. When he was fully, immaculately dressed, he turned and regarded Damen with icy composure. “Well? Are you going to lie in bed all day?” Turning, he swept out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Damen flopped back on the bed, pressing both hands over his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time he had dragged himself out of bed and dressed, there was no one outside Laurent’s room, and he didn’t see anyone but Guion’s men in the halls or crossing the courtyard. Hungry and restless, Damen stopped by the kitchens and scrounged some cold cuts of venison and a flask of wine.

Licking grease off his fingers, Damen shouldered open the door of the barracks and stopped abruptly just inside.

Jord, hunched on a bunk, sat up sharply when Damen entered, and hastily rubbed at his face. Looking away to give him privacy, Damen let the door fall shut behind him, plunging the room into gloom.

He crossed to his own bunk and sank down on the lumpy mattress, taking a swig of wine. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that Jord’s cheeks were blotchy. Damen held out the flask. “Drink?”

They sat in silence, passing the wine back and forth until Jord said, “They’re burying Aimeric tomorrow.”

Jolted out of his own musings, Damen looked over. “Are you alright?”

“His family and loved ones will sit vigil with him tonight,” Jord said tonelessly, and took a deep gulp of wine. “His noble family, of course.”

Damen clasped his hands between his knees and looked down at his own knuckles. “I'm sorry.”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jord nodded.

By the time the two of them had finished wine, Damen was feeling heavy and a little unfocused. Lying back on his bunk he thought about Laurent, and his chest ached.

As if summoned by Damen’s thoughts, the barracks door opened. Laurent stood in the doorway, gold hair blazing, looking supernatural with the sun behind him.

Jord stumbled to his feet and came to attention. Damen, just rolled his head on the pillow to look at him. “Is this what I pay you for?” Laurent snorted, glancing at the empty wine bottle.

“You’ve never paid me,” Damen said.

Laurent cast him an unamused look. “Come with me.”

Feeling lethargic and contrary, Damen considered staying where he was, but with half a bottle of wine in him, Damen could admit that Laurent’s gravity was irresistible. Somewhere between the whipping post and Ravenel, Damen had come to crave his company. He levered himself off the bed, nodding at Jord, and followed the Prince of Vere out of the barracks.

“Jord said they’re burying Aimeric,” Damen ventured, and watched Laurent’s footsteps falter slightly.

“Yes.” Laurent’s boots clacked on the cobbles of the stable yard. He didn’t turn.

“I’m glad he’ll at least get an honorable burial. Will you be attending the vigil?”

“I have no reason to mourn him.” Laurent’s shoulders were tense beneath his jacket. “I could have put his head on a spike and it would be no more than he deserves.”

Damen frowned. “You really think that?”

“Do I think he’s a traitor, who deserves a traitor’s death? Of course.”

“But it wasn’t his fault.”

“Not his fault?” Laurent halted, looking back at him. “You would forgive him? For all the men who died at Helay? For Orlant?” His voice rose, sharp and harsh.

“I don’t...” Damen stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “I do not forgive him for the harm he caused. But I don’t hold him ultimately responsible for his actions. No more than a spooked horse, having been abused, is to be blamed when he shies at the sight of a whip and throws his rider.”

Laurent’s brow furrowed, some banked emotion burning in his eyes that Damen couldn’t read. The late afternoon sunlight bathed everything in gold, making Laurent’s hair blaze, and casting sharp shadows on his face. It made him look older, like a man about to be king. He gazed at Damen in silence, frowning, and when he eventually spoke his voice was soft. “I’m not sure Aimeric would appreciate being compared to a damaged horse.”

Damen shrugged. “He was a child, and the Regent hurt him, used him. Just like Nicaise. The blame lies with no one but the Regent. And men like Guion who turned a blind eye and helped him.”

Laurent was silent for a long moment, eyes distant. Finally he said, “My uncle is to blame for many things.” His mouth twitched. It was not a smile. “I should have slit his throat while he slept when I had the chance.” Damen frowned at that but Laurent was already striding away.

 

They spent the next couple of hours with Guion’s steward. As far as Damen could tell, he’d been invited along to loom threateningly while the nervous man showed Laurent stacks of papers and correspondence. Then Laurent retreated to his room with a brisk dismissal.

When Damen got back to the barracks, he jerked his head at Lazar. “The Prince went back to his room.”

“Aw, I did guard duty last night,” Lazar complained.

Damen shot a significant glance at Jord who was curled on his bunk with his back to them, and raised his eyebrows at Lazar.

“Fine, fine. You’re not captain anymore you know,” Lazar grumbled, but he pulled his boots on.

Undressing, Damen blew the lamp out and lay down on his own bunk. The mattress was lumpy beneath his back. He could hear rats scratching and skittering in the rafters.

He was just drifting off when the barracks door banged open, flickering light filling the room. Damen bolted upright, heart pounding painfully with the memory of the last few times he’d been abruptly woken by men with swords. But it was just Laurent, carrying a lantern, it’s light gilding him warmly from head to foot. Lazar was behind him. “Up. Both of you.” Jord sat up, rubbing his eyes. Laurent gestured to him impatiently. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Damen asked, swinging his legs off the bunk.

Laurent cast him a scathing look and didn’t respond. When Damen turned an enquiring look at Lazar, he just shrugged.

When Damen and Jord were dressed, the three of them followed the prince out across the courtyard with the early stars coming out overhead, and into the dark keep. With the torchlight bobbing and flickering, Laurent led them up a flight of stairs and down a long hall. Disoriented in the dark, Damen was unsure whether he’d ever been in this part of the castle before.

Ahead of them, he heard the soft murmur of voices. They turned a corner and arrived at a doorway with candlelight spilling out of it. The two dozen or so people gathered within were speaking in hushed tones, but all fell silent when Laurent and his entourage strode into the room.

At a glance, Damen took in the candles and flowers, the people dressed for mourning, and the cloth-covered shape on the bed. He looked sharply at Laurent.

The prince’s face was stony. Behind them, Jord made a soft, involuntary noise. Everyone else was staring at them. Damen recognized Lady Loyse wearing a dark veil, and Guion’s son Rueven along with at least two other brothers and a handful of relatives bearing a strong family resemblance.

Lady Loyse rose from beside Aimeric’s body and sank into a deep curtsey. With an uneasy murmur, the rest of the room followed suit.

Laurent stalked toward the bed and looked down at the covered corpse. At Akielon wakes, the dead were displayed openly. Damen wasn’t sure if the covering was a Veretian tradition, or a testament to the state of the body’s decay. It had been a week since Aimeric died, and the summer heat could not have been kind to his corpse.

He couldn’t see Laurent’s face as he gazed down at what had been Aimeric. Nothing changed about his posture except his fingers which twitched very slightly by his side.

Then Laurent turned from the bed and took up a place near one wall. His face was completely inscrutable. Damen, Jord, and Lazar stood beside him, backs to the wall, facing the entrance.

Slowly, the others in the room returned to their hushed conversations, although there was a palpable tension threaded knot-like through the atmosphere, with Laurent at the center of the tangle. He stood rigidly upright, like a guard on duty. Under the murmur of other voices, Damen leaned in and whispered, “What are we doing?”

“Attending a vigil,” Laurent said, lips barely moving. His tone was cold.

Time dragged. The room grew unpleasantly warm from the candles and the crowdedness. Under the strong perfume of the flowers was an edge of decay, sour and nauseating. Damen’s calves began to ache and he tried to shift subtly from foot to foot. Lazar was slouched against the wall, studying the ground. Jord was turned away from them, shoulders hunched, staring at Aimeric’s body.

Laurent hadn’t moved at all, gazing straight forward at nothing, expression shuttered, shoulders tight. Whatever had changed his mind about attending Aimeric’s vigil hadn’t prompted him to display any sentiment. The cloak of his icy composure was impenetrable.

Damen remembered that this was the man who could drill soldiers for fifteen hours in the blazing sun without tiring, could fight for his life while dizzy with a crippling dose of a pleasure drug, who could make an ally of his worst enemy in service of a higher goal. Laurent’s body and emotions both were part of the weak, fallible world, over which he sought to exercise his iron-fisted control.

Many of the other mourners drifted out as the night drew on, but Lady Loyse and some of the other family members stayed. Laurent was unmoving, and eventually Damen resigned himself to standing there until dawn. His eyelids were heavy and his stomach unsettled from the heat and the smell of perfumed death, but he settled himself into the quiet stance of a soldier on night patrol and waited.

The sky outside had just begun to lighten from deep blue to washed-out gray when Laurent shifted and tilted his head toward the door. Lazar, who had been apparently asleep upright against the wall, jerked and stumbled when Damen nudged him. Jord, face haggard, lingered behind them all, following slowly.

None of them spoke as they left Aimeric’s room. When they reached the staircase where Laurent would continue up to his rooms and the soldiers to the barracks, Laurent nodded at both Jord and Lazar. “You two go to bed. Prince Damianos will take guard duty for the rest of the night.”

Jord just nodded dumbly, looking grateful. Lazar flicked his eyes between them. He knew as well as any of them that Damen had never acted as an actual guard, saving the watches he had shared during their time in camp.

Whatever game Laurent wanted to play, it likely would not involve a few quiet hours standing outside his door. Exhausted, eyes gritty, Damen considered refusing. The cold, closed-off look Laurent had been wearing all night did not bode well for a restful few hours before morning. He planted his feet, about to protest that he wasn’t a slave anymore, he didn’t have to play these games, when Laurent let one mask fall from his face. Suddenly, lines of weariness appeared around his eyes, the corners of his mouth pulling down. Damen closed his mouth and followed him silently.

He was half afraid that Laurent would lead him toward the dungeons, or even the stables, about to embark on yet another nighttime intrigue, but instead, they arrived at Laurent’s room.

Damen lingered uncertainly inside the door as Laurent began to undress, briskly unlacing his jacket.

When he had taken off the jacket and trousers, and stood only in his loose white shirt, he turned and sat on the edge of the bed. “Well? Come on.”

“What?” Damen said.

“I thought you were tired.”

Damen’s eyes flicked toward the bed, still rumpled like they had left it that afternoon. Tugging off his jacket, Laurent turned his back to Damen he began working on his trousers. “I don’t know about you but I’m ready for some sleep.”

Damen blinked, swallowed, and began pulling at his own laces. It took him twice as long as it had taken Laurent and by the time he’d finished, the prince was already in bed, curled up on his side with his back to Damen and the room.

Heart thumping, Damen stood looking down at him for a long moment. Laurent didn’t move when Damen slid into the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, but he made a small, satisfied noise, like absently reassuring a dog that had done a trick correctly.

As the first night they had shared this bed, when Laurent was first injured, they didn’t touch. Damen thought he might lie awake, but the night’s exhaustion pulled him down rapidly, and he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the discord in this chapter for brainstorming Veretian funeral practices! I like the way it turned out.  
> This is the end of what I have pre-written for Center Gambit, although I have large chunks of the rest written and the entire thing planned out. I will continue to strive to update regularly, thanks in advance for your patience!


	9. Chapter 9

Damen woke feeling sweaty and over-warm, arms wrapped around a lean body. Bright daylight streamed through the gauzy curtains and made the clean flagstones and white bed sheets blaze. It shone also in the tangle of golden hair on the pillow next to him. Laurent was curled against his chest, still asleep, head tucked under Damen’s chin, his steady breaths tickling the hollow of Damen’s throat. Damen’s heartbeat tripped unevenly in his chest.

He could feel every inch of bare skin against him, damp with sweat where they were pressed together. Laurent’s knee was between his, their hips not quite touching. Damen’s morning erection twitched emphatically, and he had to restrain the urge to thrust forward and rub his cock against the soft flesh of Laurent’s belly. He could only imagine Laurent’s glare if he woke up to an unwelcome sexual advance, and Damen had no idea what was welcome and what was not, when yesterday Laurent had said “I hate you” before pushing him down on the bed, and then spent the night apparently in his arms.

Trying to make more space between them so he wouldn’t embarrass himself, he shifted away a little. Laurent made a disgruntled noise, and squirmed closer, one hand curling around Damen’s arm. Damen’s ribs felt too tight. Laurent’s face was pressed into his shoulder, and when Damen squinted down he could only see part of his profile. His cheeks were pink, his eyelids almost blue. Damen wanted to smooth his fingers over Laurent’s pale brows, the gold stubble almost invisible on his jaw, the plump softness of his lips.

As he watched, Laurent’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, body stiffening a little, and Damen was already shifting away hastily when Laurent relaxed back against him and closed his eyes again. Damen froze.

“We overslept,” Laurent mumbled.

“We were up all night,” Damen said cautiously.

Laurent yawned and sat up lazily. “That’s no excuse.” The sheets pooled in his lap, and Damen stared at the smooth, white skin of his back, the even knobs of his spine. His shoulder blades stood out like budding wings as he stretched. “Do you think Nikandros will make it back today?” 

“I imagine so. Unless he’s encountered trouble.” Damen was still waiting for a reaction, eyeing Laurent carefully. 

Laurent got up from the bed and Damen watched him cross naked to the wash basin, just like he had done the day before. There was no hitch in his step now. They had simply slept side by side. “I expect my uncle will be another week or so, if the messenger is fast.” Bending over the basin, he splashed water on his face. “Plenty of time to prepare.” He turned and picked up his shirt. “Are you getting up or not?”

When Damen threw off the sheets and stood, he saw with some satisfaction that Laurent’s eyes dipped down his body before the prince turned away.

That morning, Aimeric was buried in the family tomb, alongside generations of his ancestors and two siblings who had not lived out childhood. 

Laurent, after whatever inscrutable statement or personal amends he had made at the vigil, did not attend the burial; barely even acknowledged it. He spent most of the day shut up in Paschal’s rooms with the physician and Govart, while Damen sparred with Lazar in the courtyard. Jord had made himself scarce somewhere.

As the afternoon shadows were lengthening, a shout went up from the sentry on gate duty. Damen and Lazar hurried up the narrow steps to the battlements and shouldered their way between a dozen or so of Guion’s men who were muttering unhappily to one another.

At the crest of the rolling hill facing the gate of Fortaine was a company of men, several hundred at least, outnumbering the soldiers garrisoned in the fort. They were all dressed in nondescript Veretian armor and flew no flag, but Damen’s heart lurched as he recognized both Veretian and Akielon troops. At the head of the party were the familiar figures of Nikandros and Makedon.

Guion’s soldiers on the wall were uneasy. Over the past week they had grudgingly followed the orders of their lady: to ignore the presence of their reviled crown prince among them. But they shot hostile glances and muttered insults just low enough to be denied. Now, watching a new group of unidentified troops draw closer, there was a rising sense of belligerent worry.

“Go get the prince,” Damen muttered to Lazar. “Hurry.”

Nikandros and Makedon halted out of arrow-shot of the wall and had a brief conference. No rider came forward under the pretense of truce this time – the force was too large and well-armed to deceive anyone. On the wall and on the hill, all the soldiers waited.

Damen was reluctant to let his friends out of his sight, but he turned and hurried down from the battlements to the courtyard, in time to catch Laurent arriving with Lady Loyse beside him. Silent observers – servants, soldiers, nobles – were gathering in the doorways around the walls, all watching intently. Damen could feel the threat of violence like the crackle of summer air before thunder. His hand itched for a sword.

Rueven was pushing his way through the crowd, face lowering. Lady Loyse raised her head and spoke in a high, clear voice. “Open the gates.”

“Hold,” Rueven said sharply. The guards manning the portcullis were all too eager to obey. “Mother, you haven’t the authority to do that. That is likely a hostile force.”

Laurent cleared his throat. “It is your father’s order.”

“Oh, I’m supposed to take your word for that?” Rueven snarled. “Convenient that he’s not here. So you can weave whatever lies you like.” A rustle ran around the courtyard. Damen couldn’t tell if it was agreement or distress for the Prince.  _ The starburst banner means something, here on the border, _ Laurent had said. Damen hoped urgently that he had been right.

Unfazed, Laurent put his hands behind his back. “On the contrary. Your father sent a letter with instructions that the troop was expected, and to be admitted without delay.” He nodded at Lady Loyse, who withdrew a thickly folded sheet from the depths of her skirt.

“A forgery,” Rueven said, but he reached out to take the paper. He scowled down at the red wax and Damen knew without being close enough to see that it bore Guion’s genuine seal. Rueven’s mouth twisted.

Loyse lifted her voice. “That is quite enough delay. You see the letter from my lord, with its orders clear. Now let me perform my station as head of this house in his absence by obeying them. The gate. Now.”

Reluctantly, the guards began straining at the wheel of the portcullis, and the iron gate rose with a screechy groan. Damen realized he was holding his breath. He could see out across the gently rolling approach to where his own soldiers waited. They made no move toward Fortaine, and he didn’t blame them. It was as neat a trap as any force had encountered in the history of war, for all they knew.

Damen scanned the courtyard quickly, and saw that it was taking the combined presence of both Laurent and Lady Loyse to hold the soldiers’ loyalty in check, in face of Rueven’s displeasure. Neither of them could ride out to invite the Akielons in. Damen stepped forward. “Allow me to greet our guests.”

Laurent held his gaze for a long, cool moment. Damen could see the calculations of risk ticking behind Laurent’s eyes, but could not guess at their outcomes. And then Laurent nodded, once, sharply, and gestured.

A horse was brought from the stable. Taking the reigns and swinging up into the saddle, Damen looked at Laurent. Laurent tipped his head very slightly to one side as if to say,  _ well? _ With a nudge of his heels, Damen wheeled the horse and rode out from under the forbidding teeth of the portcullis.

The cool shadow of the gatehouse flowed over him and vanished as sun struck his face. Suddenly he felt the weight of the single cuff on his wrist acutely, as he had done in those early days at Arles. He was mounted and free – riding away from Laurent toward his own loyal Akielon force. There was a fierce flutter in the back of his mind –  _ go! Go and don’t turn back! _

But it was a thought of habit only, after so long alert for any chance of escape. He had promised Laurent he would stay, and he meant to keep that promise. Still, he felt easy in the saddle as he urged the horse to a canter across the short distance between Fortaine and the waiting soldiers.

They saluted as he drew up beside them. Scanning the ranks of cavalry he recognized Akielon troops he had fought beside at Marlas and Sanpelier, or feasted with in the halls of Kyroi. He recognized Veretians too, all men from Laurent’s loyal band – men he had helped to train and seen first tried in battle.

Makedon nodded at him. Damen had spoken only briefly to Makedon at Ravenel, during the rushed preparations for their rescue party. Makedon had crushed him in an embrace and promised his support in the conflict to come, and Damen felt gratitude for his loyalty bringing him even as far as a strange mission for a foreign prince.

Leaning over, Damen clasped first Nikandros’ hand and then Makedon’s. “Exalted,” Nikandros said with obvious relief.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Damen said. “I’m here to invite you into the fort.”

The sun was at their backs as they rode toward the fort. The shadows of mounted men danced before them. If things had gone differently, Damen thought, he might have met Laurent thus for the first time – at the head of an army, in battle or in siege. But the soldiers behind him were not only his, and he rode under no banner. This force was his and Laurent’s both in equal measure. In this they were not royals of nations at odds, but allies.

The arched gateway of Fortaine was an iron-toothed maw in the bright daylight. Damen half expected to meet armed resistance – to see Rueven successfully rally his men. But no, Laurent held them all in thrall as his force rode through the gate.

Damen drew his horse to a halt before Laurent, who still stood straight-backed and head shining in the center of the courtyard. Still mounted, Damen towered over him, but Laurent just tilted his head back and met his gaze steadily.

Behind him, their soldiers clattered in under the portcullis, the courtyard becoming crowded with horses and men. Out of the corner of his eye Damen watched the soldiers file in and disperse. With satisfaction he saw Nikandros quietly directing soldiers toward the armory and the stables, toward the keep gate behind the kitchen, and other key points. In the flicker of his eyes, Damen saw Laurent tracking too and felt a rush of pride for his oldest friend.

Finally when the last of the men had filed in, Laurent called in Veretian, “Close the gate.”

The portcullis began to move with a slow groan and squeal of iron, until it clanged into place against the stone and they were all trapped inside together.

The watching crowd was restlessly hushed. Laurent raised his voice, echoed clear and precise through the courtyard. “Welcome, friends. Allow me to extend the hospitality of Fortaine to you and your men.”

Although he addressed the mixed troops, he still spoke in Veretian, and Damen knew his words were as much for the inhabitants of the fort as for the newly arrived soldiers. Rueven stood protectively in front of his mother, his face grim. Damen felt a pang of sympathy – Rueven was unpleasant but not stupid, and Damen knew the experience of having his home invaded by enemies.

He let Laurent direct the subtle conquest of the fort, instructing the hostlers and stable hands to care for the new horses, giving orders that the newcomers be welcomed, speaking in crisp Veretian loudly enough for all to hear. Anyone who challenged him would unquestionably be challenging the Prince of Vere in front of a hundred witnesses. When Laurent swept inside Damen directed Makedon to the barracks, and set him to oversee settling the men. “Join us when you’re finished.”

He and Nikandros joined Laurent in his rooms, along with Jord and Lazar. Servants had laid a light meal to one side, and Laurent gestured them to the plush chairs around the fireplace where a few days before Laurent had sat with Loyse as he wrested her loyalty from her with his dangerous tongue. Accepting a goblet of watered wine from one of the servants, Damen wondered what the game was today.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” Laurent’s tone was courteous, impeccable. “I appreciate your support, Kyros, and I know you are eager to return to your own fort in Delfeur.” He used the Veretian name, but without bite. Nikandros was watching with his eyes narrowed. Damen, bemused, took a sip of his wine. “I will not impose upon your generosity much longer I hope. When my uncle arrives I simply need the manpower to overcome whatever guard he has. I imagine he will not come with much of a retinue.”

Nikandros flicked his gaze between the two of them. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

“No.” Laurent widened his eyes, as if to say  _ why would you think that? _ Damen bit back a smile as Nikandros suspicion visibly increased. “Is there something wrong, Kyros?”

“No,” Nikandros said slowly, still frowning at Damen. “Let me get this straight. We are to be your private guard when the Regent arrives, to control the situation militarily until you do... whatever it is you are planning to do.”

“Correct, Kyros.”

“Usurper or no, he is the rightful ruler of Vere until your maturity. Using force against a foreign king is an act of war.”

“Let me deal with my uncle,” Laurent said, voice silky. “You will merely be keeping order in the fort.”

There was a knock at the door and Makedon entered, glancing around with visible distaste at the Veretian finery of the room. The sun was setting, the sky outside the windows gone peachy with evening, the shadows in the corners of the room deepening.

“Join us, General,” Damen said, extending an arm toward the empty seat.

Instead of sitting, Makedon crossed his arms over his barrel chest and eyed Laurent up and down. “So this is the Veretian princeling who’s been causing all this uproar?” Turning to Damen he said in Akielon, “He’s pretty enough, but you need more than a cocksucking mouth to win a throne.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed and Damen winced, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure if Laurent knew the exact translation – the slang was vulgar and regional – but the meaning was clear. “I think you’ll find that your king is the one with the cocksucking mouth,” he said, voice clipped, accent curling around the words.

There was a frozen moment, and Makedon’s face went red. Nikandros drew in a sharp breath. A flush of irritation shivered through Damen – he wasn’t  _ ashamed _ , but Laurent spoke of it like he should be. As if giving Laurent pleasure was a weapon to be used against his friends and countrymen. Neither Jord nor Lazar spoke any Akielon as far as Damen knew, but they were both watching intently. 

“You seek us as your allies, and yet you flaunt your abuses of our rightful king,” Makedon growled.

“Your king has offered his aid to me,” Laurent said pleasantly, and drained his glass. “Are you his loyal subjects, or no?”

“I don’t need to stand here and take a lecture on fealty from some green, untried princeling,” Makedon snarled. Nikandros closed his eyes briefly.

“Of course not,” Laurent said silkily after an infinitesimal pause. Damen let out the breath he was holding. “Your loyalty to your rightful king is admirable.” Makedon looked only moderately mollified. “More water,” Laurent added, to no one in particular. The pitcher was near Damen’s elbow, and he reached for it unthinkingly, even as one of the servants lurking against the wall moved forward. He already had it in hand when his mind caught up with him and he froze.

Laurent quirked an eyebrow at him and Damen’s cheeks flushed. He could feel Nikandros and Makedon both staring at him with identical expressions of horror. Heat crawled up his neck.  _ Damn _ Laurent and his games. Embarrassment tangled with something else hot and reluctant in his gut. 

Thinking fast, Damen topped up his own glass, which was mostly full, sloshing water over the rim, and then deliberately put the pitcher down again. The hovering servant picked it up and filled Laurent’s glass silently.

A smirk was playing on Laurent’s lips, and he raised the glass in a silent toast before he sipped. “If Damen can obey me, so can you.”

Makedon was simmering with rage, face red and fists balled. “How dare you. How  _ dare _ you.”

“Is this how you speak to royalty in your country?” Laurent asked, cool and sharp. “No wonder everyone was ready to believe Prince Damianos’ guards would stage a coup.”

There was a heavy, sudden silence, filled with the soft shuffling of a servant lighting the lamps in the twilight gloom. Damen forced himself to breathe through the sharp pang under his ribs. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation tomorrow,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

Nikandros rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Very well.” He rose, casting a baleful look at Laurent and then raised his eyebrows at Damen, head tilted toward the door. “Exalted?”

Damen knew that he should leave with them, do his best to diffuse Makedon’s anger and reassure them both. But his own temper was tight under his ribcage. Laurent was sitting calm and aloof as ever, and Damen desperately wanted to shake his composure. “You go,” he said to Nikandros, and watched his friend’s mouth turn down unhappily.

When everyone had gone, Damen and Laurent faced one another, Damen standing by the table, Laurent seated on a low couch. The room had grown dark, and Laurent had dismissed the servants before they had finished lighting all the lamps. Half of Laurent’s face glowed with candlelight, the other half was in shadow.

Damen felt his own banked anger rising up in the space left by Makedon and Nikandros’ departure. “You can’t speak of me that way to my subjects.” He knew even as it left his mouth that it was the wrong tack to take, watching whatever was genuine in Laurent’s face – a kind of anticipation – shut down beneath a mask of cool amusement.

“Can’t I?” His tone was arch. “I think I just did. Does it bother you, to speak of your time as my slave? Would they be happier to know that I bend over for you? Perhaps we should invite them back to watch you take me, just so you can prove your status. Would that make you feel better?” Damen narrowed his eyes and crossed the room, stepping into Laurent’s space. Laurent barely reacted, except to tip his chin up a little. “You knew who I was when you made this alliance. If your allies cannot stomach me, that is not my concern.”

“It is when you are relying on them for arms,” Damen bit out. His heart was pounding in his ears, a hot thrum of blood. “It is in your interest to win them – do you truly hate me so much you cannot put that aside? Even to beat your uncle?”

That got a reaction. Laurent’s cool insouciance was gone in an instant – tension changing his posture, face twisting. “You flatter yourself to imagine everything I do is because of you,” he hissed, voice low and furious. The heat in his tone made something familiar roll through Damen’s stomach, coiling in his gut. “I have more pressing things to concern myself with than your hurt feelings. Prince or no, you are not as important as you think you are.”

Damen cupped his hand around the back of Laurent’s neck, feeling Laurent jolt under his touch. He felt hot rush of satisfaction at that tiny reaction, and Damen let his fingers dig into the tense muscles at the base of Laurent’s skull. He leaned down and whispered, “Am I not?”

If he had not been so close, he would have missed the minute shudder that went through Laurent. Damen breathed out hard, cock twitching and beginning to stiffen, and tipped Laurent’s head back. Laurent’s breath was coming faster, mouth slightly open, eyes dark. Damen kissed him roughly, dragging his teeth over Laurent’s lower lip. He eased himself forward until he had one knee on the couch cushions beside Laurent’s hip, making Laurent lean back, catching himself on his elbows.

Sliding his hand from Laurent’s neck down his arm, Damen wrapped his fingers around Laurent’s wrist, and caught the other hand also, pressing him down into the cushions and feeling Laurent’s chest rise and fall beneath his with a silent, indrawn breath.

Twisting his head, Laurent bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to hurt, even through his jacket. Damen reared back, startled, keeping both of Laurent’s hands pinned. They glared at each other. Beneath him, Laurent was disheveled, face flushed and mouth swollen, the front of his pants stretched obscenely. Damen felt his own cock twitch at the sight. Staring at the pale column of Laurent’s throat, he thought how easy it would be to bite back, to leave marks above his collar for everyone to see.

“Have you forgotten what to do?” Laurent said, the slight hitch in his voice ruining his usual mocking tone. “Do you need me to show you?”

Growling, Damen bent and nipped sharply just under his ear, where the bruise would be hidden by the shadow of his jaw and the fall of his hair. Laurent sucked in a sharp breath and jerked his head back, eyes narrowed, pupils blown. He squirmed, not a serious attempt to free himself, but enough that Damen could feel the bones of his wrists shift in Damen’s grip. His cock dragged against Damen’s through their trousers and Damen swallowed a groan.

“Now,” Laurent ordered, rolling his hips up again.

“Oil,” Damen panted.

“You can take me dry.”

Damen paused, still holding Laurent down with his weight. “No, I can’t.”

Laurent lifted his chin. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.” Frowning, caught out of the moment, Damen thought that whoever was in the Prince’s past had been an inconsiderate lover. Laurent made an impatient noise, hooking one of his legs around Damen’s hip and thrusting against him deliberately. “Come on.”

Letting go of Laurent’s wrists, Damen curled both arms underneath him and lifted him up off the couch. Laurent clutched at his shoulders and made a noise that in a less controlled man might have been a squeak.

He tumbled Laurent onto the bed, reaching for the jar of oil with one hand and fumbling at the laces of his pants with the other. He swore under his breath as the laces tangled and tightened painfully. Then he felt Laurent pushing his hands away, deftly plucking at the knots himself, his own trousers undone, red cock rising against the stark white of his shirt. Damen spilled the oil all over his hand and the bed sheets, and gave in to the temptation to stroke Laurent.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Laurent arched up, cock leaking as Damen gripped him, clear fluid mixing with the oil dripping down Damen’s fingers. Then Laurent was struggling to kick his tight trousers down his legs, Damen trying to help him one-handed. He slid his slick fingers down past Laurent’s balls, and slipped one easily into the velvety, gripping warmth of his hole.

Laurent had freed Damen’s cock and was rocking back against his finger. “Another.” Groaning, thrusting into Laurent’s grasp, Damen gave him another.

“Is that all?” Laurent bit out. “I thought you had something to prove.”

Damen’s head was swimming. He could feel his pulse in his cock. Laurent was tight and slick around his fingers. “How can you be so hot and still so frigid at the same time?” he said, distracted, sliding his cock along Laurent’s crack.

“Your cock isn’t the answer to every problem,” Laurent panted.

Damen bit back a moan, the head of his cock pressing against Laurent’s hole, stretched between his fingers. “Maybe the problem is you, not my cock.”

With his fingers still inside Laurent, Damen felt instantly the tension that snapped through him. Not the rolling clench of arousal but a sudden contraction seizing his whole body at once. Laurent pushed himself up on an elbow, pulling his knees toward his chest and together as if to shield himself. There was still a hectic flush on his cheeks but his expression of open desire was gone, wiped away. His soft lips were tight and flat, eyes hard. They stared at each other for a long moment, Damen’s mouth slightly open in shock at the change.

Then Laurent made an abrupt movement, not quite enough to dislodge his fingers. “Get out,” he said, voice slightly rough and terribly cold.

“What?” Damen blinked.

“Get. Out.” Laurent repeated, with an icy dignity more suited to a throne room than lying in bed with his pants tangled around one ankle and his shirt rucked up under his arms.

Damen pulled back, fingers sliding out too quickly, feeling off balance like missing a step in a familiar sword drill. “I...”

Laurent pushed himself back up the bed, pulling his shirt down over his crotch, head turned away. “Leave me.”

Damen was still wearing all of his clothes, even his boots. After a shocked, silent moment, he began lacing his trousers over his cock, which had gone mostly soft but was still sensitive.

At the door, he looked back. Laurent was curled on the bed, almost completely lost in darkness except for the arch of his back, white shirt blazing in the dim lamplight. There was a knot in Damen’s stomach that had nothing to do with the tight ache of unsatisfied arousal.

The guard on duty was Jord, who looked up startled as he stepped into the corridor. Damen felt his cheeks heat, suddenly aware that one of his hands was still glistening with oil. He clenched it behind his back and nodded to Jord, who cast a look from him to the room behind him, brow furrowing.

Damen shut the door firmly, and strode away down the corridor with the back of his neck burning.

With all the new soldiers the barracks were overcrowded, a number of men sharing pallets. A late game of dice was going on by lamplight in one corner, Lazar and half a dozen other men bent over a rickety table. They all looked up at him when he came in, their quiet laughter and conversation dying down. The cot beside Nikandros where Damen had slept before was occupied by young Pallas, who sat up hastily as he approached. “Exalted,” he stammered. “I’m sorry. Kyros Nikandros said you wouldn’t be back. I can move...”

Damen waved a hand. “No need. Nikandros and I can share.” Nikandros, always a heavy sleeper, hadn’t stirred.

Pallas looked mortified. “Are you sure, Exalted? I mean. Of course you are, I just... I don’t mind sharing. Or sleeping on the ground.”

“Hey, your highness,” Lazar called from the circle of candlelight in an exaggerated whisper. The other men at the dice game were all watching with avid curiosity. “Tell that piece of ass he’s welcome to sleep with me. How do you say it in Akielon? Does it mean both things?”

Pallas, who Damen knew spoke perfectly good Veretian, blinked at Damen. Damen shrugged. “You don’t have to,” he said softly in Akielon. “I can’t actually vouch for his prowess in bed.”

Pallas blushed to the roots of his dark hair and said, “N-no, Exalted, I have no objections.”

Damen looked over at Lazar. “Yes. It has a double meaning in Akielon also.”

Lazar, grinning, rose from the dice table as Pallas crawled hastily out of bed. Like all Akielon soldiers in summer he slept naked. Lazar whistled softly. Turning his back on the two of them, and the laughter of Lazar’s dicing friends, Damen undressed as quickly as he could. His right hand was still sticky with oil that he hadn’t managed to wipe off completely. The dice game was breaking up, the men talking in soft voices as they went to their bunks in ones and twos. Someone blew the lamp out.

Damen heard sheets rustling, and then a soft gasp, quickly stifled. He recognized Lazar laughing quietly. Damen pulled his lumpy pillow over his head.

Lying alone in the dark, his cock reminded him that he had left Laurent’s rooms distinctly unsatisfied. His balls ached. Grimacing, he rolled onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut, determined to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

In times of war, Fortaine could garrison around 400 men, and it was close to capacity now. The halls and courtyards were bustling at all hours, the kitchen fires burning through the night. The prosperous villages around the fort were also buzzing with activity. Cartloads of hay for the extra horses rumbled up to the gates, herdsmen leading strings of goats for milk and meat, farmers bearing sacks of wheat, barley, and peas.

If the Regent’s spies were paying close attention to the economic microcosm around Fortaine, they would be immediately alerted that something was brewing. Damen hoped that the spies were complacent about the activities of peasants and made a mental note for himself - to pay more attention to agriculture in the future.

Over the following week, Damen watched Laurent mostly from a distance as he juggled the chaos of the fort. He was icily, impeccably polite to Damen in public and avoided him alone. Again, Damen saw everything that Laurent could be as king - the consummate logistician, the accomplished commander, the skilled puppeteer. Still, all of his talent was only barely enough to keep the simmering tension in the fort in check.

Akielon and Veretian shoulders were living, eating, and sleeping shoulder to shoulder along with the usual residents of Fortaine. Rumors were flying within the walls. Prince Laurent and Prince Damianos were lovers. Prince Laurent and Prince Damianos had a falling out. Prince Laurent had been corrupted by the barbarian. Prince Damianos had been enslaved and seduced by the snake.

People eyed Damen and whispered after he had passed by. He heard his name spoken with reverence by the Akielons; hushed, fearful, and furious by the Vetetians.  _ Damianos. Prince-killer.  _ Servants and soldiers of Fortaine who had seen him at Laurent’s side for the past week without knowing his identity goggled at him. Some made superstitious gestures against bad luck that made him want to stop and explain –  _ I’m not a monster. Just a soldier. People die in war. _

The tension was only increased by the fact that no one at all was being allowed in or out of Fortaine. There were soldiers at each entrance, from the main gates to the kitchen entrance, all the way down to the fetid hole that drained the sewers. Every delivery changed hands outside the gates, also under the careful supervision of soldiers.

Nikandros was assisting Laurent with the troop assignments, since Makedon was not speaking to Laurent and Laurent was religiously avoiding Damen.

After Nikandros’ first meeting with Laurent he met Damen in the barracks. He’d given Damen a long look, but said nothing about the Prince, except to relay some of the logistical details they’d talked over.

“He’s not a bad strategist,” NIkandros admitted grudgingly. “He wants all the guards in rotas of three or six, an equal number from each faction. Of course that means Veretians always outnumber Akielons two to one.” His face pinched.

“But the men of Fortaine are loyal to the Regent – or at least to Guion. While the rest of the Veretians are loyal to Laurent.” Damen crossed his arms and nodded. “The factions will balance each other. How have our men taken it?”

“As well as you’d expect, taking orders from a Veretian. I give the orders of course, but they know it comes from Laurent.”

“And Makedon?”

“Unhappy,” Nikandros said flatly. “Damen, you know how much he loved your father. How much pride he takes in his king. It’s one thing for me to see you deferring to Laurent.” His mouth was twisted down at the corners. “At least I’m used to you making a fool of yourself over a pretty face.” Damen made a noise of protest. “But it’s another thing for Makedon and your men.”

“A good king recognizes talent and delegates accordingly. You said yourself Laurent is good at what he does.”

Nikandros snorted. “Delegate? Is that what you call it? While you sleep in the barracks with the men and Laurent is up in his fancy rooms in the castle?” He shook his head. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“An Akielon commander is proud to share accommodations with his men. It’s a cultural difference.” Nikandros looked unimpressed. Damen sighed. “I’ll talk to Makedon.”

“Makedon isn’t your biggest problem. Your troops are even less happy. They don’t like the thought of you as a slave, don’t understand why you are still here.” Nikandros pinched face said that he didn’t understand it either – or that he did, and didn’t like it. “They wonder if the prince still has some kind of hold over you. Other than the obvious.”  

“Uncalled for.”

“Is it?” Nikandros’ voice struck like a lash, fierce and low. “If this goes on much longer you will begin to lose credibility with your men. They need to see you as a strong leader, not second to some blond, foreign upstart. When they back you against Kastor they make themselves traitors. If your sortie fails, they will all be executed. Anything that erodes their faith in your strength now could destroy your chance for the throne.”

Damen ducked his head, chastened. Nikandros was right. Of course. By now Damen should have learned to listen to him. “Just a little while longer. I will speak with the men during training tomorrow.” To keep discipline up and boredom down they had a regular rotation of drills in the courtyard every morning. He laid a hand on Nikandros’ arm. “Old friend. Thank you.” He struggled to say more but found himself at a loss. “Thank you.”

Nikandros glared, and then softened, lifting his own hand to cover Damen’s, squeezing briefly. “Don’t thank me. Just fix it.”  

The next morning Damen dressed in the barracks and followed the other soldiers out to the stableyard, where morning drills were scheduled. Nikandros and Rochert were making a determined effort to accustom the Veretian and Akielon soldiers to working and fighting together. Thus far the results were mixed at best. Paschal had already been called on to treat various scrapes and minor wounds following alterations among the troops. Harmless training mishaps, if you believed the earnest faces.

As far as Damen could see, the Veretians who had been with Laurent on his border patrol were doing marginally better at preventing scuffles and holding their tongues with insults than either the Akielons or the existing garrison of Fortaine. Damen wondered if it was because of their existing familiarity with him, or just their experience training with unfriendly comrades.

As he passed a knot of soldiers checking their weapons, he heard someone mutter in Veretian, “I can’t believe the Prince has forgiven the Prince-killer.” Damen vaguely recognized one – they were Guion’s men.

“Forgiven him?” someone else said, “He took him as a slave. That's not forgiveness.”

“Are you kidding?” a third person muttered. “Does sucking the Prince’s cock sound like a punishment to you?” A ripple of laughter, both salacious and unfriendly. Damen stalked away, heading over to a group of Akielons practicing with the short sword. They stumbled over themselves to improve their form when they saw him approaching. It was always like that – was there something else in their expressions than the usual admiration and curiosity that his rank provoked? Judgment? Contempt? No. Nikandros was worrying over nothing, as always.

Damen offered a few gentle pointers and some praise to young Pallas, who blushed and stammered.

“He holds a sword well, doesn’t he?” a familiar voice behind Damen said in Veretian.

Damen turned. “Hello, Lazar.”

Lazar grinned at Damen, and then turned to wink at Pallas.

“Pallas is doing very well at his drills,” Damen allowed. “Unlike you.”

“Hey, I’m just doing my part for troop morale. Anyway, you know I can fight. You trained me.” The Veretians around were listening intently, the Akielons watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility. Lazar, with an unusual sense of tact, executed a small bow. “Excuse me, your highness. I’ve got some work to do.”

Damen suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as Lazar sauntered over to Pallas. Damen went to stand at the edge of the edge of the yard where he could see everything, leaning against the rail of a coral. Akielons bobbed respectfully as he passed. Damen nodded to Atkis, a soldier he recognized, and to Huet, standing with a group of Laurent’s men not far away. The Veretians eyed him warily. 

Huet sidled up to him, arms crossed. Damen straightened his shoulders. He could sense the Akieklon troops around them tensing at the casual familiarity in Huet’s stance. “So. Your highness, is it?”

“Huet,” Damen said, levelly. “Your sword work isn’t going to practice itself.”

“Answer me one thing. For old times’ sake.” Thankfully, he spoke quietly, or the Akielons would riot at the presumptuousness. “Did the Prince know who you were?”

Damen raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised Jord and Lazar haven’t told the whole story.”

“Jord hasn’t been talking much. Lazar,” he nodded across the training ground to were Lazar was standing with an arm around Pallas’ shoulders, “has been busy. C’mon. Help a man out.”

A suspicion rose in Damen’s mind. “...how much is the wager?”

Huet bit the inside of his cheek, and then grinned. “Nine crowns, total. Odds are that he didn’t know, or you’d never have left the whipping post alive.”  

It was Damen’s turn to suppress a smile. “That much, really? That’s too bad. You’ll have to ask the Prince.”

Huet groaned. “Don’t be like that. First you wouldn’t talk about fucking him, now you won’t talk about whether he knew he was fucking the Prince Killer.”

“Finish your drills, Huet,” Damen grunted, and turned. Atkis was standing not far behind him, one hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, face livid.

“Atkis?” Damen said.         

“Exalted,” Atkis ground out. He was still glaring at Huet’s back.

Damen sighed heavily. “Your orders are to cooperate with the Veretian troops in order to secure the fort. Is there going to be a problem?”

“No, Exalted.”

“Good. See that there isn’t.” Damen turned away, scanning the courtyard.

It wasn’t as much a disaster as it could have been, for all the differences in culture and military style between the two nations. No active fights were happening, at least none that couldn’t be explained as vigorous training.

Someone had spread and raked fresh sand in one corner of the courtyard, to make a wrestling ring, and it was drawing attention. Damen wandered over to watch, appreciating the artistry of the sport, and feeling some satisfied pride at watching the Veretians gather around curiously. Pallas had dragged Lazar over, and was explaining something with vigorous gestures. Apparently they had resolved their language barrier. Lazar looked bemused, and then appreciative as Pallas began to unpin his chiton.

As the match finished, Pallas stepped into the ring to face the victor. Within moments of the starting signal, it was clear who was going to win. Pallas was good. He was the son of one of the lords in Ios, landowning, Damen didn’t know him well – Pallas had been too young to train in the army when Damen served his time, but Damen vaguely remembered him visiting the palace with his father. He had grown up fast and acquired formidable skills with the sword and javelin. Wrestling too, Damen saw, as he rose victorious from a bout.

“Pallas,” he called. “Would you join me for a match?” An interested ripple ran through the crowd. The Akielons would like seeing their king compete, and the Veretians here on the border would know something of Akielon sports.

“Exalted.” Pallas was blushing. “I would be honored.”

Damen reached for the pin on his chiton. It felt good to be back in simple clothes. Lazar whistled as he stripped down, and Damen shot him a disapproving look. Someone passed him a jar of oil and he ignored the spectators grinning as he rubbed it over his body.

In the improvised ring, he and Pallas took their starting positions. Pallas’ brown skin was sun warm and slick beneath his hands. Someone called the signal, and they both heaved together. The crowd cheered.

It was a simple pleasure. Damen enjoying the sheer physicality of it, the slide of oil and grit of sand, the heave and strain of their muscles together. Pallas was a skilled partner although his footwork was not yet precise. Damen let the first match drag out, and by the time he had Pallas pinned they were both sweating and panting. Pallas had a grin on his face so contagious that Damen felt himself helplessly smiling back. Pallas’ chest was slick with oil, heaving under his knee, and Damen thought in a flash that Pallas was exactly the kind of young soldier Damen might have taken to bed, once. Skilled, handsome, and eager to please. He would be overjoyed to serve his king in bed – enthusiastic and biddable. When had that lost its savor?

“Again?” he asked. They began their second match. Damen had missed this during his time in Arles, and he wondered if he could coax Nikandros into the ring with him tomorrow. The sun was hot and welcome on his back.

Gradually Damen became aware of the silence growing among the onlookers. Damen glanced up and saw, with a sudden tightening in his chest, Laurent standing on the edge of the ring, staring intently at both of them. Their eyes met. Damen’s stomach rolled, and his cock, traitorously, twitched. His momentary distraction almost allowed Pallas to pin him. Reacting half on instinct, Damen slipped out of the hold and reversed their positions in two quick moves, finishing the match with Pallas beneath him. It took only moments, but when he looked up again. Laurent was gone.

He caught Makedon alone the following afternoon, in the armory inspecting weapons.

“General.”

Makedon looked up, a heavy broadsword laid across both palms. “Exalted,” he rumbled.

Damen nodded at the sword. “How are you finding the fort’s armaments?

“Poorly cared for,” Makedon sniffed, turning the blade to show him the dull edge. “Veretians. Always hiding in their forts, trusting to siege. No investment in arms for proper warfare. Cowards.”

Damen crossed his arms. “You haven’t been setting a good example for the men with your conduct toward Prince Laurent.”

Makedon’s face hardened. “He kept you as a slave.” There was distaste on his face, not quite hidden. Of course, Makedon kept slaves himself, used them often, like all Akielons of rank. Like Damen himself. “It is an insult that cannot be borne.”

“You will bear it,” Damen said sternly. “It was Kastor’s doing, not Laurent’s. Kastor and the Regent. Laurent freed me.”

“After months of parading you in front of his troops in a collar like a dog.” A muscle jumped in the general’s square jaw. “Soldiers talk. What do you think it does to morale to hear enemy soldiers speculate on...” Damen narrowed his eyes and Makedon choked on whatever he was going to say.   

“They need to stop thinking of Veretians as enemies, for a start,” Damen ground out. “And as you know, Makedon, good commanders lead by example.”

Makedon’s lips were flat. Damen could see him forcing down his disagreements, and wondered how far his loyalty would stretch.

“Prince Laurent is my ally,” Damen said levelly, prodding.

“He is an insolent, untried boy and a green commander,” Makedon grunted. Loyalty to Damen apparently didn’t extend to curtailing insults to Laurent. “With all due respect, Exalted, it is unwise to get involved between him and his uncle.”  

A headache was beginning to throb behind Damen’s temples. Makedon had been a trusted advisor and friend to his father. “What would you do in my place?”

“Take the fort, as long as we are here. Ride south, gather support along the way. I believe the kyroi of Sciyon and Dice will be on your side, and perhaps Mellos. There will be more resistance closer to Ios. They are more forgetful of Marlas there.” That had always been the crux of it – Damen was the soldier, the decorated hero, the brilliant commander. But those things carried less weight in the south where the threat of invasion was not so urgent. “Face Kastor with an army, in honorable battle. Not playing house here with a pretty boy in a crown.” 

Damen’s jaw clenched. “Even Nikandros admits he’s a good strategist. He’s our winning piece against the Regent and Kastor.” 

“ _ You _ are our winning piece against Kastor. You are the rightful king of Akielos. Nikandros knows that. Your soldiers know that. The Prince of Vere is a distraction.” Makedon dropped his gaze and added, “Exalted.” 

“My men think I’ve had my head turned by a handsome face,” Damen said, low and hard. “Perhaps that my time as his slave has left some sort of… corruption. A weakness. Is that what  _ you _ think, General Makedon?” 

Makedon straightened at his tone. “I would not think such a thing about my king.” His jaw worked. “But if he were not a king, I would wonder at a man who let his lover insult him and brag of his service in front of others.” 

Damen breathed out sharply. “Enough. You will continue to follow Laurent’s orders and ensure that your troops do the same. That will be all.” 

Makedon scowled, not quite at him but at the floor. He put down the sword and gave a stiff bow before stalking out. Alone in the dim, oil-smelling armorny, Damen let out a heavy breath and rubbed his temples.

He took a shortcut from the armory back toward the main fort that took him behind the laundry. Steam poured out of the great chimneys, smelling of lye and lavender. Sheets were hung to dry, billowing on their lines as Damen ducked between them. Two women were hanging laundry up, talking in Veretian, mostly obscured by the swirling fabric. He passed them, not paying attention, and then stopped abruptly when he heard his own name.

“...believe we are meant to be hosting the Prince-killer!” one woman said shrilly. “Cooking his meals, washing his sheets.” There was an emphatic snap of fabric being shaken out roughly. Damen leaned around a linen sheet to look. The woman was pinning a lady’s underskirt to the line. “The man who killed Auguste.”

“I know,” said the second, consoling. “But if the Prince has forgiven him, isn’t that his right? We all ought to follow Prince Laurent’s example.”

“You’re just saying that because you think the Akielon is handsome.” There was a snort and a muffled laugh. “What makes you think the Prince has forgiven him in any case?”

“Oh come on, Vreni, everyone knows they’re fucking. I talked to Claira who cleans upstairs and she said they sleep in the same room and leave the sheets a mess.” Damen felt the back of his neck grow warm as both women tittered.

“Well of course,” said Vreni, “The Akielon was his pleasure slave. It must be good if they’re still doing it now he’s free.” More giggling. “I heard from Emile that Claude said that Pauline told him when she was serving the masters, Prince Laurent told everyone Damianos sucks his cock. And the Akielon just sat there and let him!” Damen’s flush deepened. It was too much to hope for that at least some of the servants in a border fort wouldn’t be bilingual.

“No wonder the Prince has forgiven him for killing his brother.” Damen felt a cold rush down his spine.

There was an urgent shushing and the smack of someone being hit, followed by a high pitched squeak. “Marcielle! Don’t talk of Prince Auguste like that.”

“Sorry, sorry, I take it back. Still. I’d pay good money to watch them fuck. Do you think the big brute takes the Prince, or is he the one who bends over?”

Vreni sniffed disapprovingly. “It’s not my place to speculate.”

“Oh, don’t get all prissy on me now. Tell me, if you were Prince Laurent, you wouldn’t let that piece of beef fuck you any way he wanted?” 

There was a splutter of stifled laughter and some urgent whispering. 

Damen walked away as quietly as he could and headed for the barracks. His head hurt. At least there it would be cool and quiet.

He pushed the door barracks door open and froze. There were two men on one of the cots, and the ropes under the mattress were creaking violently. Pallas was on his hands and knees, eyes closed and mouth open. Behind him, Lazar lifted his head and grinned at Damen as he thrust his hips forward, rocking Pallas on the bed. Damen stood shocked into silence. Pallas was moaning into the sheets, and Lazar wasn’t stopping, even though Damen was standing in the doorway. 

Lazar thrust again, making Pallas gasp a curse, and raised his eyebrows at Damen. “You coming in or not, your highness?”

Pallas’ eyes flew open and he yelped, pinned awkwardly under Lazar and trying to lunge away from him. He scrambled to cover himself, stuttering, “E-exalted, I…” Lazar was laughing, still clutching Pallas’ hips. 

Damen turned around and walked out, letting the barracks door slam behind him. His head was throbbing, and his cock reminded him that it had had no company except his own hand for a week. He crossed the courtyard again, thinking vaguely of going to Paschal for a headache cure. 

The dim halls of the fort were refreshingly cool. As he passed the doors to the main hall, someone called out. 

“Prince Damianos.” Damen turned, heart thudding sharply. It was not Laurent’s voice, but the sound of his full name made him think inescapably of Laurent. Rueven stood behind him, mouth set grimly. “I’d like a word.” 

“Alright,” Damen said, wary. 

“This way.” Rueven led him down the corridor and up a short spiral stairs. When he halted and pushed open a door, Damen stepped through into a room lined with bookshelves. 

“A library?” 

“Did you think Veretians are illiterate?” Rueven said stiffly. He shut the door behind them. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through high windows. The books looked dusty - little used. 

Rueven crossed his arms over his chest and faced Damen. “So you really are the Prince-killer. I thought it was soldier’s talk at first.” 

Damen watched him warily. His head hurt too much for Veretian games. “I am Damianos of Akielos, yes.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Why do you care?” asked Damen. 

“You think it doesn’t concern me that the crown prince of an enemy kingdom - the rightful king even, some would say - has been in my fort without my knowledge for more than a week? Disguised as a Veretian no less,” he added with a sniff, eyes sweeping Damen’s body.  

Damen nodded in acknowledgement. “I am here to help Laurent. If you’ve been listening to soldier’s gossip then you know he and I have been allies for months.” 

“Allies.” Rueven wrinkled his nose. “That’s not what I heard.” 

“Really.” Damen crossed his own arms. 

Rueven narrowed his eyes. “Why are you still here? What do you want from him?” 

Damen’s brow furrowed. “Are you worried about Laurent? I thought there was no love between you two.” 

Rueven raised his chin. “You insult me. I am a Veretian, Prince Auguste would have been my king. My loyalty is to my country. I am concerned about an unfriendly foreign influence on the Crown Prince.” 

“You’ve made no effort to aid him, if you’re so concerned,” Damen said. “If he had the allies he needed in Vere, he wouldn’t need me.” 

“Aid him? In what? He has invaded my fort with a handful of men and some forgeries. He has taken my father prisoner somewhere, or possibly killed him. My brother died in his service. What could I  _ possibly _ have helped with?” Rueven spat. “I am not interested in  _ helping _ him. Merely protecting the throne of Vere from Akielon manipulation.” 

“Whatever you think about Laurent, you’re wrong. He’s a good man.”

Rueven raised his eyebrows. “Loyalty? Very slavish of you.” 

Damen tilted his head. It was a typically Veretian barb, but Rueven wasn’t as good at it as Laurent was. “Very honorable of me, perhaps.” 

“I would not call Prince Laurent a good man,” Rueven said, mouth twisted like he’d bitten a lemon. “But the last ten days have made me doubt whether he is the incompetent degenerate his uncle would like us to think he is.” 

The door behind him clicked open. “High praise,” said a dry, familiar voice. Rueven spun. Laurent stepped through. “I don’t mean to interrupt. Only I have heard that there are a number of rare volumes in the collection at Fortaine. I meant to take a look, and I couldn’t help overhearing. I appreciate your acquiescence on the subject of my intelligence at least.” 

Rueven’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Your highness.” 

“Rueven.” Laurent nodded politely. “Damianos.” Damen felt his heart beat speed up at the sound of his name in Laurent’s mouth. “Discussing politics?” 

“We were just finishing,” Rueven said, stepping toward the door. “Good day.” 

“No, by all means,” Laurent interrupted. “I have been meaning to speak with you, and now the opportunity has presented itself.”  

Rueven eyed him warily. “Yes?” 

“Rueven de Fortaine,” Laurent said thoughtfully. “Eldest son of Lord Guion. Eldest brother to the late Aimeric de Fortaine, for that matter.” Rueven’s face twitched. “You will be an important man someday. Someone whose job it is to know the comings and goings of the kingdom. Do you know where the Regent is now?” 

Rueven was frowning, clearly trying to guess Laurent’s game. Damen silently wished him luck. “I heard he left Arles.” 

“Yes. Not long after I departed.” Laurent laced his hands in front of him. “Even now my uncle is Ios, treating with the new King Kastor. You know what he is planning there, don’t you? Every Veretian must have guessed by now.” 

Rueven’s eyes flickered to Damen and back. 

“Yes,” Laurent agreed pleasantly, as if he had spoken. “That is exactly why Damianos is still with me. My uncle plans to rule from the seas of Ios to the Great Northern Forest. Your father knew that much. He helped my uncle… advance his interests in Akielos.” Damen thought of his own father, lying sick and shriveled in bed, and felt his throat clench. “Vere and Akielos together produce many goods.  Grain, timber, furs, olives, wine. Exports of fine textiles, pottery, engravings, weapons. It would be a would be a wealthy empire.” Laurent’s voice was silky, hypnotic. “If you could keep ahold of it.” 

Rueven was watching him with narrowed eyes. “Keep ahold of it?”

Laurent tipped his head to the side. “Someday, if all goes well, you will be lord of Fortaine. You will collect the taxes, garrison men for the crown’s army. Those are not difficult tasks in peace time.”

“I do not need a lecture on my duties as lord,” Rueven gritted out. “Your highness.” 

“Of course not. I only bring it up to point out how much more of a burden your military and financial duties would be as a vassal of an unstable empire constantly on the brink of civil war. Or do you think Vere and Akielos will be easy to unite?” 

Damen felt the thrum of satisfaction that he was learning to enjoy from watching others fall into Laurent’s neat traps. 

Laurent was smiling very faintly - a neutral, dangerous expression. “I think,” he said deliberately, “you are not as much of a fool as your father.” 

Rueven made a noise in his throat and his hand twitched, clenching into a fist before relaxing. “I understand,” he said finally. “Your uncle doesn’t want you on the throne. You are playing against him.” 

“I would never accuse the Regent of Vere of such treasonous intent,” Laurent said silkily. “But I try to be prepared for every eventuality.” 

“You have a plan?” 

“Of course. After all, I am not entirely the… what was it? Incompetent degenerate people seem to expect.” He smiled, all teeth and no eyes. 

“And the Akielon is part of your plan?” Rueven asked, glancing toward Damen in distaste. 

There was an infinitesimal pause. “Damianos has made himself... useful to me.” Laurent’s voice was steady. He didn’t look at Damen. 

Rueven eyed them both, lip curling. “Is he really that good a fuck?” he said sharply to Laurent. 

“Jealous?” Laurent said evenly. “If you want try his cock, you’ll have to ask him. I’m not his master. Any longer.” 

Rueven made a face, and then bobbed the tiniest bow possible. “Enjoy the library, your highness. Highnesses.” 

The door closed behind him, leaving the two of them alone. Damen found there was a knot in his throat making it difficult to speak. “I’m useful?” he managed. His voice was weak. 

Laurent huffed out a breath, not looking at him, and turned toward the door. 

“Wait! Laurent. About the other night.” He saw Laurent stiffen and lift a hand to cut him off. Damen swallowed hard and rushed on. “I’m sorry. For whatever I said. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or upset you. And I’m sorry.” 

Laurent stood silently for a moment, staring down at the elaborately patterned Veretian carpet. His hair fell over his face, hiding all but the ivory angle of his jaw, clenched tight. Finally he said, “I don’t keep you around for your scintillating conversation.” 

Damen breathed out heavily, something warm flooding his chest. “What about my lessons in Akielon?” 

Laurent glanced up at him, hair falling in his eyes. He didn’t smile but he wasn’t quite scowling either. “Like I said. Useful.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Apparently, there was to be a feast.

Damen had known nothing of it until the day before when a nervous servant came up to him, bobbing a curtsey and asking whether there was any particular dish he’d like served at the feast.

“Feast?” he’d said.

“The feast tomorrow night, my lord,” she had murmured in Veretian.

“Really.” A feast of any magnitude would have been under way for a week at least. No wonder the kitchen had been in such chaos, not only feeding the doubled population of soldiers in the fort but also preparing  a feast for a pair of visiting royalty. He wondered if there were any lambs and sucking pigs left alive for fifty miles around Fortaine.

“Yes, my lord,” she said and then blushed and stuttered. “Your highness. I’m sorry.”

He waved her off. “Assure the cooks that I’m sure whatever they prepare will be admirable.” It would doubtless be under-seasoned and over-sweet, but that couldn’t to be helped in Veretian dishes. He wasn’t about to inflict Veretian style cookery on his native cuisine.  

“So, a feast,” he said to Nikandros that evening as they undressed for bed in the crowded barrack.

Nikandros looked over sharply at his tone. “Yes. Problem?”

“Did Laurent discuss it with you?”  

“He did. Wanted my opinion on whether it would improve morale.”

Damen frowned. “And what did you say?”

“I said it couldn’t hurt.” Nikandros eyed him. “Why, what did you say?”

The barracks around them were full of listening ears. Damen couldn’t say, _he didn’t ask me._ Instead, he said, “I trust his judgment,” and felt the soldiers around absorb that, less than happy.

Nikandros’ mouth turned down sharply. “I’m aware.”

 

The feast was held in the great hall of Fortaine. Damen hadn’t set foot there yet during their stay, so after morning training he stopped by to see it. He had a vague sense of scouting a feild before a battle - the feast was some device of Laurent’s and he didn’t know what kind.

The hall was not so lavish as anything at Arles, but a respectable showing of Veretian artistry in architecture, and Damen found himself appreciating both its aesthetic and its relative restraint. The floor was tiled in an elaborate pattern, the columns and fornices covered with delicate carvings. A servant bustled out past him with a basket of half burned candles, leaving the hall empty.

It was to be a feast in the Veretian style, rather than the Akielon symposium. Long tables had been set out and covered in clean linen, laid with dishware to serve almost four hundred men. Soldiers, it seemed, did not merit silver dishes, but the earthenware was respectable. The old candles had been swapped out for fresh new tapers.

At the head of the hall was the high table, and at its center were two identical thrones - elaborately carved wood painted with gilt. Damen stood in front of them in the empty hall, reflecting on Laurent’s precise and enigmatic preparation, wondering what he was planning.

Damen filled his afternoon with mindless sword work in the courtyard until he was sweaty and pleasantly sore. When evening fell he washed hastily and changed into a fine chiton, embroidered at the edges with scarlet and gold - Nikandros had brought a bag of his proper things from Ravenel.

The great hall was filling gradually, Veretians and Akielons sitting separately. At the high table, Lady Loyse, Rueven and another two brothers joined Damen, Nikandros and Makedon.

There was still no sign of Laurent, the second throne on Damen’s right standing empty. Servants were pouring wine and spirits, and the noise in the hall was gradually increasing. The hubbub was not openly hostile at least, although Damen could feel the stares of the Veretians and the dark looks the Akielons cast at the other throne.

With his arms bare in his chiton, the gold cuff was heavy and obvious on Damen’s wrist. Under the eyes of his soldiers, he felt a flush of irritation at himself. Why had he left it on? It had been foolish, sentimental. A mistake.

He reached for his wine glass. Whatever was on his face made Nikandros frown at him in concern.

There was a stir at the door and heads turned as Laurent strode to the high table. He was laced to the chin in an elaborate jacket that Damen had never seen before - deep blue laced with gold thread at the wrists and throat. It made his eyes stand out, his gold hair blazing in the lamps of the brightly lit hall. Damen swallowed.

Laurent stopped beside the empty throne, one hand resting on the gilded back. He glanced down at Damen and then swiftly away. He cleared his throat and nodded to one side at a servant who rang a small bell. The high sound cut through the hubbub of the hall, and a curious silence fell, the last few voices shushed by their neighbors.

Damen leaned forward, intrigued himself. Laurent’s face was calm but Damen was close enough to see the tension in his shoulders under the fine brocade of the jacket.

Laurent lifted his voice, which rang easily to the back of the hall. “Friends,” he began in Veretian, and then in Akielon, “Allies. Tonight we are celebrating the alliance between myself and Damianos of Akielos.” There was a ripple through the room. “You here will all bear witness that the rightful heirs of Akielos and Vere are united against the usurpers who lay unlawful claims to our thrones.” At Damen’s elbow, Nikandros was tense. On the other side of the empty throne, Rueven’s jaw was clenched.

“You all know,” Laurent continued, “that Prince Damianos was delivered to me as a slave and was in my retinue in that capacity for some time.” There was grim, uneasy muttering from the Akielon troops and Damen tensed, ready for another of Laurent’s dangerous, insolent games. The prince was still speaking Akielon. Throughout the hall, Damen could see more fluent Veretians translating quietly for their friends. “What has passed between us concerns some of you. There is no doubt that Akielons are both proud and loyal. So I offer a gesture of loyalty in return, to prove than Damianos and I stand before you today as equals.”

He waved a hand, and a servant stepped forward with something wrapped in silk. As the cloth slid back, gold metal gleamed underneath. A shudder of something hot and intoxicating rolled through Damen’s gut. It was a golden cuff, shining against blue silk.

“Damianos.” Damen jerked his gaze away from it. Laurent was looking at him, face absolutely impassive. He extended his left hand, palm up, exposing the intricate laces at his wrist. “Would you do the honors?”

Heartbeat drumming in his ears, Damen stood. He cupped Laurent’s open hand in his own and plucked at the laces. Knots that would have taken Damen frustrating minutes a few months ago now unwound easily. The tips of his fingers brushed the warm, tender flesh of Laurent’s inner wrist as he peeled the laces open. Damen felt flushed, aroused, exposed by the hundreds of eyes watching this minutely intimate gesture. Laurent’s blue eyes were fixed on his face. Damen was breathing fast.

With Laurent’s wrist bare, he reached for the cuff. It was unmistakably the pair to his own, although it had been resized for Laurent’s slimmer wrist. He had left it along with the rest of his possessions at Ravenel in their hurried rescue. Somehow, Laurent had fetched it, and then had it adjusted. The thought of Laurent working on this plan in secret made something ache under Damen’s ribs.

The metal was chill to the touch and heavy, but Laurent didn't flinch as Damen closed the cuff around his wrist. It clicked shut with a barely audible sound that Damen felt deep in his gut.

Still holding his gaze, Laurent said in Akielon, not loudly but clearly enough to be heard through the silent room. “Our brother of Akielos.”

Damen realized his mouth was dry. He swallowed, hearing a click in his throat, and returned the formal fraternal greeting in his native tongue. “Our brother of Vere.”

There was a long silent moment that lengthened painfully. Their hands were joined, Laurent's left in Damen’s right, cuffs gleaming side by side. Laurent’s fingers were clenched around his own hard enough to hurt. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him but he couldn’t take his gaze off Laurent. His expression was stony but there was color high in his cheeks. Damen wanted to kiss him. He imagined standing, hands clasped like this before a priest, a different kind of alliance. His heart was pounding.

Laurent’s grip tightened further on his hand, and his eyes flickered over the crowd. Shocked back to his senses, Damen realized that Laurent was gambling, unsure how his play would land. He turned to look out at the crowd, a sea of faces - Veretian, Akielon, friends, allies, and sometime enemies, all watching in tense, frozen silence.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out into the breathless stillness. “To the alliance!” Nikandros cried and Damen felt a surge of gratitude for his oldest friend. The words fell into the heavy silence, and then a ragged echo rose from the lower tables, a chorus that grew into a cheer -

“ _To the alliance!”_

The hall was in chaos. People were shouting, exclaiming, laughing, in Akielon and Veretian. Damen lifted their clasped hands above his head, as he would the victor in a royal game, and looked out across the crowded hall as the noise went on and on.

 

The rest of the feast was a blur. Damen was maddeningly aware of Laurent at his elbow again after a week of separation, wearing the cuff. Damen urgently wanted to touch him, kiss him, to abandon the feast and drag him to bed; wanted to push him down on the table in the bright, crowded hall, and have him in front of everyone.

He gulped his wine, and then gestured to a servant to add more water to his glass. Getting drunk wouldn't help anything. Without turning, Damen could feel Nikandros eyes on his back. He barely tasted the fine venison and sweet quail on his plate.

People kept coming by to talk, curious or congratulatory. The Akielon troops were pleased, entertained, gratified by the gesture. Damen deliberately ignored the more salacious jokes made not quite out of his earshot, and accepted the congratulations. Even Makedon's men - tough, proud border soldiers with no love for Veretians - grinned appreciatively at Laurent. The gold cuff on Damen’s own wrist had lost its ability to offend with the matching cuff adorning the insolent foreign princeling. That, of course, had been Laurent's intent. Damen wondered again how long he had been plotting this.

The Veretians seemed bemused by the cuff more than anything - but Vere was not a slave state. It was a small titillation to see their prince adorned like a pet, not a cultural insult. Guion’s men were less happy, but willing to take their cues from the family de Fortaine, watching closely as Rueven and the others made civil if stilted conversation with Laurent.

As the evening wore on, Damen could feel the tension in the room relaxing. Copious alcohol and excellent food helped ease the atmosphere. In a few places, Damen could even see Akielon and Veretian troops gathered together, eating and laughing. Lazar had his arm around Pallas, saying something that made a mixed group laugh. He glanced up at the high table and caught Damen’s eye, grinning broadly, nodding his head toward Laurent. His expression plainly said _well done_. Damen bit down on a smile and looked away.

After the last elaborate course - a confection of honey and cream - there was entertainment. Nothing so sophisticated or so carnal as the entertainments at Arles - musicians played brisk tunes on lyre, drum and pipe while people danced in lines between the tables. The Akielon and Veretian residents of the border lands shared a style of music and dancing, and were drunk enough to join hands and swing one another through the simple steps.

One of Makedon’s troops broke out of the dance and stopped in front of the high table, gesturing to his commander in invitation. Makedon stood, to raucous shouts of approval from his men, and held out his hand to Laurent.

Although the hall was noisy, a small, palpable bubble of silence fell around the high table where the frigid Prince of Vere sat, laced to the neck in his severe jacket, stone sober, untouchable. Damen glanced at the reeling lines of drunken revellers, leaning on one another, grasping each other’s hips and arms. All eyes were on the prince. His face was impassive.

Laurent stood.

Damen realized he was gaping and shut his mouth as Laurent placed his hand on Makedon’s. Makedon looked somewhat surprised as well, but he recovered quickly and led Laurent around the table. The nearby revellers fell back a few steps, watching avidly. Damen felt himself leaning forward also.

The dance was a reel, the same simple form repeated over with different partners. Taking both of Laurent’s hands, Makedon spun Laurent into the steps. Laurent moved with the same easy grace that he had on horseback or weilding a sword. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, Damen realized, that he could dance. Of course he could. Damen imagined meeting him for the first time on some diplomatic trip, whirling him across a dance floor in Arles.

The music brought Laurent and Makedon to the beat where one dancer would spin away to a new partner. Twirling under Makedon’s arm one last time, Laurent stepped away. There was a moment of hesitation, as no one reached out to take his hand for the next set. Then Lazar pushed his way through the onlookers, bowed deeply to Laurent and spun him into what Damen thought was an unnecessarily close embrace.

The musicians played on, as Laurent passed from hand to hand along the line of dancers, movements graceful and light. Between the dancer’s bodies the gold cuff flashed and winked in the light. When the song finally ended, Laurent’s clothes were a little rumbled, and there was high color on his cheeks. Damen felt flushed himself just from watching.

Makedon followed Laurent as he made his way back to the high table, tugging his jacket straight. “Not bad!” he boomed, clapping a hand on Laurent’s shoulder. “So you’re not too grand for peasant dances after all.” Laurent quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

Makedon gestured to a servant who brought forward an unlabelled bottle and two cups. “Griva,” he explained. “A specialty of my region. Do me the honor of joining me in a toast to the dance.” Lifting the bottle he poured both cups and held one out.

Laurent looked at the cup.

The pleasant warmth in Damen’s stomach vanished in a flood of cold certainty. Laurent didn’t drink. He would refuse, insulting Makedon and ruining whatever good will he had managed to cultivate both with the general and the Akielon soldiers.

Laurent took the cup and threw back the contents swiftly. His face twisted in a pained grimace, but he didn’t cough. “What do you ferment it out of?” he rasped. “Piss?”

Makedon barked a laugh and tossed back his own shot. He slammed the empty cup on the table. “Another!”

 

A long while later the wicks of the lamps had burned down almost to nothing and begun to go out one by one. The musicians had gone off to bed, and most of the revellers had staggered off to bed some time before. Damen was fighting the fatigue of a full meal, a late night, and a few drinks himself. Nikandros had retired with a pointed look at Damen, but Damen had shaken his head.

Laurent was still sitting with Makedon and a few of his men, two empty bottles of griva on the table between them. Given that the stuff was strong enough to strip the oil out of leather, Damen wasn’t sure how any of them were still upright, and he wasn’t about to leave Laurent.

Makedon was shaking an empty bottle over his cup and frowning at it. Hauling himself to his feet, Damen crossed to them and took it out of his hand. “Perhaps that’s a sign from the god of drink that the night is over, eh?”

“Ha. Aha,” Makedon chuckled. “Fickle bastard.”

“I’m sure you’ll think worse of him in the morning,” Laurent said, his voice remarkably steady although his eyes were glassy and his cheeks flushed. “I think I shall retire, gentlemen. Thank you for your hospitality.” He rose, then stumbled, eyes widening. Damen grabbed his arm hastily.

Makedon laughed. “Look at that. Six cups and he’s on his feet. A toast to the Prince of Vere!” There was a ragged chorus of toasting from the few men who were still conscious. Makedon tipped back his cup and then frowned when he rediscovered it was empty.

“I don’t think I can walk,” Laurent said in a very small voice. He was already listing sideways into Damen.

“The Prince and I are retiring together,” Damen announced, slinging an arm around Laurent and helping him from the room. At any other time, Laurent would have been stiff with displeasure at showing such weakness, but everyone left in the hall was too drunk to care or remember, and Laurent was boneless against his side.

They made slow progress up to Laurent’s rooms. It would have been faster to pick him up and carry him bodily, but Damen didn’t mind having the warm weight of Laurent’s body pressed against him.

Huet was on guard duty. He grinned when Damen gave the order that they weren’t to be disturbed, nodding cheerfully. The door shut heavily behind them.

“I hate this,” Laurent mumbled against Damen’s chest.

“I know. You hate a lot of things.” Damen wasn’t really thinking about the words, just talking in a soothing voice as he maneuvered Laurent toward the bed. “You hate drinking, you hate me - this must be just awful.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Damen tried to ignore the ribbon of warmth that squirmed in his chest. “Oh really? I must have misunderstood last week when you said ‘I hate you.’”

Laurent shook his head, rubbing his cheek on Damen’s chest. The cuff was body warm now, pressed against Damen’s neck were Laurent’s arm was slung around his shoulders. “I wish I did. I used to. For so long. Hate you for... everything.”

“I know.” Levering Laurent onto the bed, Damen pulled away to unlace his boots.

Laurent let go of him with a soft, unhappy noise. “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.” His voice broke. “And I try. I tried to hate you.” He tugged urgently on Damen’s arm, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I tried to hate you.”

Startled, Damen stopped with one boot in his hand, and blinked. “I know,” he said, an automatic reassurance in response to Laurent’s urgent tone. “I know you tried.” Laurent nodded jerkily and relaxed back on the pillows, looking vaguely satisfied. Frowning to himself, Damen reached for the pitcher beside the bed. “Can you drink some water?”

“Mmm?” Laurent hummed, eyes closed.

Damen slipped an arm behind his back, holding the glass to his lips. “C’mon. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Water spilled down Laurent’s chin, but he swallowed some, and then leaned back with a grimace. “Don’t feel good,” he mumbled.

“I’ll put a basin beside the bed.” Damen sat up to fetch the washbasin from the dresser, but found Laurent’s hands clutching weakly at his arm.

“Don’t leave me.” His eyes were barely open, head lolling back against the pillows.

“I’m not.”

Laurent didn’t seem to hear him. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

“Okay. Okay." Damen sank back onto the mattress, smoothing Laurent’s damp curls off his forehead. “I won’t leave. I’m right here.”

Sighing deeply, Laurent curled toward him, pressing his face against Damen’s thigh. When he spoke his voice was so muffled and slurred it was almost inaudible. “Thank you, uncle.”

They were such small words, but they fell heavy as stones in the dark. Damen froze, heart thumping loud in his ears. Surely it was nothing; Laurent was befuddled in the depths of alcohol and sleep. His face was slack, cheeks pink, looking soft and vulnerable. Like a child.

Damen’s stomach flipped.

He hadn’t drunk much but he felt suddenly as if he were sliding into the beginning of a hangover, nauseous and vaguely lightheaded. His heart was pounding in his ears. Surely not. _Surely_ _not_.

But as soon as the thought had appeared, it seemed immovable. A slimy seed of suspicion had taken root in his stomach. The longer it lingered the more solid it became.

A dozen or more small moments grew in his memory, strange moods and mannerisms of Laurent’s taking on a chilling significance. Damen sat frozen on the edge of the bed, staring down at the prince in the dark, feeling the sick suspicion grow and grow.


	12. Chapter 12

In the morning Damen was bleary-eyed and slow. He had been awake most of the night, occupied by his mind running in dark circles, and holding Laurent’s hair while he vomited into the basin. When Damen had dozed uneasily, his dreams had been full of the blood red color of the Regent’s crest.

Laurent was in a spectacularly awful mood as he dressed, snapping at anyone who came close, cheeks paler than usual and eyes sunk deep in blue shadows. Damen couldn’t even muster annoyance at any of his barbed remarks, which seemed to infuriate Laurent further.

After the feast the night before, the morning meal was lightly attended. Makedon, who was never troubled by drink, clapped Damen on the shoulder and rumbled. “Your boy’s not such a bad sort after all.” Damen twitched to hear Laurent so casually called  _ boy _ , and mumbled an agreement. Nikandros frowned at him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, leaning close when Makedon had walked away.

“Fine.” Damen forced himself to smile.

“Are you sick? I didn’t think you drank that much last night.”

“Just tired.”

Nikandros didn’t look convinced, but he turned back to his plate. Damen chewed his food without tasting it. His mind was tracing dark circles around the thought he’d had last night. No matter how he turned it, he couldn’t muster certainty that he was right, nor convince himself he was wrong. He couldn’t ask Laurent. Laurent would deny it, and be furious at the breach of privacy. It was hardly a thing to speculate on. Or worse, he would  _ not _ deny it, and then what? Damen could not even imagine shaping words around the thought, much less imagine facing Laurent if he acknowledged it.

Damen pushed away his plate and Nikandros made a worried noise in his throat. “Damen...”

“I’m alright, old friend. Tired of waiting for the Regent’s move.”

Nikandros nodded. “The sooner this is done, the sooner we can ride for Ios.”

Damen realized with a guilty jolt that thoughts of Ios, of Kastor, of his own crown had flown utterly from his head. During the early days of his captivity longing for his home had throbbed under his ribs like a second heartbeat, and yet here he was, in a Veretian fort, laced into Veretian clothes, mind tangled with concerns of the Veretian prince and hardly a thought spared for himself. He swallowed. “Yes. Ios.”

“We haven’t had a chance to talk strategy, in all of this,” Nikandros continued. “For our next steps. Makedon thinks that the border lords will be ready to side with you, and that if we make a slow campaign south we can gather more support as we go.”

Distracted, Damen nodded. “Right.”

Nikandros cocked his head. “I would have thought you’d be against a slow campaign. A quick strike at the heart, that’s more your style.”

Damen thought suddenly of Auguste, blue eyes wide and shocked in the split second as Damen’s blade sliced at his throat. A quick strike. He remembered the fatigue of battle, the ache in his muscles, the heart-pounding terror of having been disarmed once already, knowing he was fighting for his life. Over-judging a parry in his exhaustion and realizing it too late – the sharp, burning clarity that he was going to die. But Auguste had hesitated, just long enough for Damen to recover and use the opening for a quick, fatal strike.

Auguste had had Laurent’s eyes. Laurent, who had been fourteen and suddenly alone in his uncle’s care. Damen’s stomach rolled.

He pushed back from the table abruptly.

“Damen?” Nikandros’ voice was heavy with concern.

“I’ve got to go. Finish your breakfast.” He left the hall, knowing Nikandros would not chase his king from the room in defiance of a direct order, but that there would be a round of serious questions next time Nikandros cornered him.

There was one person he could ask.

He let his feet carry him toward Paschal’s rooms, and halted outside the door. Someone was yelling inside, muffled through the wood, and Damen froze with his hand on the doorknob as he recognized Laurent’s voice.

“...didn’t think in all this time?” he was shouting. It wasn’t the icy tone of displeasure he usually used to cut his opponents, but a genuine, heated rage that Damen had heard only a few times.

Paschal murmured something inaudible.

“And did you give any thought to what the  _ right _ time might be? No, of course not, the right time would have been the moment this came into your hand! But you kept it like you’ve kept every one of my uncle’s secrets, because you are too much of a  _ coward  _ to face your own cravenness.” There was a solid thud, of something being dropped, or kicked. “You could have saved yourself the trouble,” he said, more calmly. “Dispose of him.”

The door was yanked open, making Damen startle back, and he was faced with Laurent, red faced and breathing hard. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“I- I was looking for Paschal,” Damen managed.

Laurent glared as if that were a crime, and then shouldered past him, striding down the corridor. Cautiously, Damen stepped inside. The room was not in as much disorder as might have expected after one of Laurent’s fits of temper – no broken pottery or overturned chairs. Paschal was standing with his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. On the far side of the room, the cot bearing the bulky shape of Govart was covered with a white sheet. Damen took all of it in at a glance and cleared his throat. “Govart is dead?”

Paschal took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His mouth was tight and grim, cheeks pale, eyes a little bright. He didn’t quite meet Damen’s gaze, and his voice was thick as he said, “Yes.” Damen frowned. “Can I help you, your highness?” Paschal added in a more normal tone.

“Yes. Ah...” Now that he was facing Paschal, Damen found he couldn’t get the words out.  _ Did Laurent ever... Did Laurent’s uncle... He didn’t... did he?  _ He couldn’t stop hearing Laurent’s voice  _...like you’ve kept every one of my uncle’s secrets. _

Damen cleared his throat. “The Regent’s boys… other than Aimeric,” he began. Paschal went still, gaze fixed on the wall over Damen’s shoulder. “Were they all pets?” His heart was pounding. Paschal’s face was white, expression frozen. Looking at him, Damen felt dread slide sick and cold through his stomach, but he had to hear it to be sure.  _ Tell me I’m wrong, _ he thought fervently.  _ Please let me be wrong. _ “Or. Were there other…” He swallowed, unable to continue. Paschal’s hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. 

There was a knock at the door, and they both turned as it clicked open.

“Exalted.” Pallas stood in the doorway. “Prince Laurent sent me to find you. He’s called for a meeting.” When Damen hesitated, Pallas added, “He didn't look like he wanted to wait.” 

Damen met Paschal's gaze and huffed out a breath. “We'll finish this later,” he grunted, and saw a flash of relief in Paschal's face. 

He followed Pallas through the halls to Laurent’s rooms, and stepped into a tense war council. Makedon and Nikandros were there, along with Lazar, Huet and Rueven. “Ah, Damianos.” Laurent sat at the table, a pile of papers in front of him. “My uncle will be here tomorrow.” 

There was a lurch in Damen’s chest. “Tomorrow?” 

Without looking up Laurent said, “A scout arrived an hour ago. He is riding with a small party, a few guards and members of the council.”

Damen frowned. “I thought you expected him to come alone?” 

“It was a possibility that he would want to deal with me… privately.” Laurent’s mouth twisted in bitter, inward amusement, and Damen’s stomach flipped. How many times had Damen seen him make that face when he spoke of his uncle? There was a rushing in his ears, but Laurent was still talking, like it was nothing. “But apparently he has opted to make a public example of me. He has brought the council members to solidify whatever fiction he spins. If he finds me beaten and bloody - well, I was foolish and got involved unwisely with Akielon brutes. The injured prince must convalesce, and indeed his mind may never recover, et cetera, et cetera.” Laurent waved a hand dismissively. “Or else I have laid a cunning trap which my uncle will evade and use to prove to the council members I am treasonous and unfit to rule.”

Nikandros crossed his arms. “He must be confident he can control the outcome, if it comes to an open conflict between you.” 

Laurent tipped his head, expression cool and dangerous. “My uncle thinks we are still playing on his board. He doesn't realize I have rearranged the pieces.” 

“Are you sure of that?” Nikandros asked. “Sure he hasn't gotten word?” 

“There are eight people in the dungeons who have tried to take word to him,” Laurent said lightly. “And a ninth who suffered an unfortunate accident on the road.” 

There was a moment of silence and then Makedon barked a laugh. “He's good,” he said. “What's your plan, princeling?” 

“He wants a public scene? He'll get one.” Laurent’s face was hard. “As long as you can be sure his soldiers don't have me in chains before I am finished.” 

“Count on us,” Makedon rumbled, clapping Laurent on the shoulder hard enough to make him rock in his seat. “Your uncle's men aren't any match for us. You said he had just a few guards?”

“A contingent for safety on the road,” Laurent said. “I imagine he is counting on the garrison of Fortaine providing whatever military support he finds he needs.” Laurent cut his eyes over to Rueven. “Unfortunately, he may find that his mishandling of Aimeric has turned his alliance sour.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Rueven said, low. “Aimeric was with your company when he died. Don't forget that.”

“Believe me,” Laurent said, each word clipped, “there is no chance of that.” Damen remembered the night Aimeric died, Laurent standing over him incandescent with rage, and felt sick. But even as he considered the thought, mind spinning down dark paths, Laurent continued. “Don’t  _ you _ forget that when you are Lord de Fortaine, someone will be your king, and it will be either myself or my uncle.” 

Rueven glared at him for a long moment. Laurent met his gaze, a slight smile curling his lips unpleasantly. Then Rueven nodded fractionally, and said, “I look forward to serving my king.” 

“Indeed.” Laurent flicked his eyes away, a dismissal. “Lazar, you will accompany Damianos and I on an errand this afternoon. Bring your cloak. Kyros, General, I will speak with you more tomorrow morning on troop placements.” 

 

When the others had gone, Laurent said, “We’re going to pay Guion a visit. I believe he’s had enough time to think about where his loyalties lie.” 

“You’re letting him out?” Damen asked. 

“He  _ is _ one of the councilors.” Laurent rose from the desk. “It’s only fitting that he be present for my uncle’s little show. Come.” 

Damen followed Laurent toward the dungeons with Lazar two steps behind them. In the cells, as Laurent had said, were a dozen or so shabby people who watched them as they passed. Informants for the Regent, caught by Laurent’s web. Their straw looked clean, at least, and it didn’t stink like full dungeons sometimes did. 

The cell at the end of the row with the hidden door was empty. Laurent stepped inside and tugged at the hidden mechanism bolted into the stone. With a low creak, the door swung open. “A torch,” Laurent ordered, and Lazar brought one from the wall. 

They went down the narrow steps in the flickering orange light. Damen had one hand on the ancient stones of the Artesian fort, cold under his fingertips, roughly set. The torch made Laurent’s hair blaze white gold in the dark. The sound of their breathing was loud in the still, stale air. 

There was a faint rustling as they reached the bottom, a slow, weak noise unlike the skittering of rats. Light spilled over the cell door and Laurent drew the key out of his jacket. This time when the door swung open, Guion was not waiting behind it. He was curled against the back wall, and didn’t move when they entered. Damen could hear the unhealthy rattle of his breath.

“Lord Guion,” Laurent said, voice calm and solicitous. “You’re free to go.” 

At that, he lifted his head, squinting in the light. “On what condition?” he rasped.

“No condition.” 

“Why?” His voice was thready, destroyed. 

“Your family misses you,” Laurent said. “Your sons need a father with their best interests at heart,” he added, and the ice in his voice felt like it sliced directly into Damen’s gut. 

Slowly, Guion rose to his feet, holding the wall for support. His soiled clothes hung off his once-stout frame. It had been a little less than two weeks of imprisonment, but Guion was a haggard shell of the man he had been. He had a scraggly beard that partly hid his gaunt cheeks. His eyes were sunk in deep blue hollows, and his thinning hair was plastered greasily against his skull. 

Laurent stepped back out of the doorway to let him through. The four of them stood in the small circle of torchlight. “Lord Guion, you’ve met Damianos of Akielos.” Guion’s sunken eyes flickered between them, quick and dark like a trapped rat’s. Laurent smiled thinly. “King Damianos and his soldiers are guests of the fort. Your wife and son have extended exemplary hospitality in your name.”  

Damen inclined his head slightly and watched Guion’s gaze slide urgently across his broad shoulders, the sword at his hip. 

Laurent waved a hand. “Lazar, help his Lordship up the stairs.” 

They made slow progress up the tight staircase, Guion’s breath wheezing harshly. At the top, Laurent replaced the torch in its bracket and took the cloak that Lazar was carrying. Guion’s gaze flicked over the occupied cells and the staring prisoners, and then pulled the cloak on, drawing the hood up over his face.

After the dungeons, the daylight was blinding. Laurent led the way to Paschal’s rooms, ignoring the strange looks from passers-by. Guion kept his head bent, face hidden in the shadows of the hood. The fort would gossip about the ragged man accompanying Prince Laurent, but with luck, the news of Lord Guion’s return would overshadow that. Outside the physician's chambers, Damen knocked. 

Paschal went pale when he opened the door to see Damen. Some color returned to his cheeks when Damen stepped aside and Lazar ushered Guion inside. “Something to help his lordship recover from his harrowing journey,” Laurent said lightly. “And some hot water to wash and shave, I imagine.” Guion glared feebly at him. Laurent gave him an insincere smile and turned away. “I hope your strength returns soon. Oh,” he added, over his shoulder. “My uncle arrives tomorrow. Rest well, Lord Guion.” 

Guion stood frozen in the doorway as Laurent’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Damen met Paschal’s gaze for a long moment and then turned to follow the prince. They returned to Laurent’s rooms in silence. Lazar stopped outside the door, taking up his post as guard, and Damen followed Laurent inside. Two serving girls curtseyed, and Laurent dismissed them. After a week of listening to gossip and speculation around the fort, Damen was aware of the girls’ eyes on them as they left. He had never considered what servants and slaves might say about their masters behind their backs, until the collar, and Erasmus’ burned thighs. 

Laurent stretched, moving his bad shoulder gingerly. It was early afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains. The girls had made the bed and returned the washbasin, clean, to its stand. 

“Are you feeling better?” Damen ventured. 

“Somewhat,” Laurent said. “My head is still reminding me why I hate alcohol.”

“You should drink more water.” 

“ _ Thank _ you, Paschal has already told me that today.” 

Damen crossed the the pitcher and poured a cup. Laurent scowled at him, but took it without protest. 

“I’m sorry Govart died. He had something you wanted?” 

Laurent took a sip of water and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It doesn’t matter now. I have what I need.”

“You’re ready to face your uncle?” Damen asked. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. 

Laurent cradled the cup in both hands and looked toward the window, away from Damen. “Are you ready to face your brother?”  

Damen pressed his lips together, caught off guard. “I. Yes.” He couldn’t picture the meeting clearly. When he thought of Kastor, all he could see was his older brother teaching him how to hold a sword, correcting his footwork. The coup, the horror of waking up with steel at his throat, Lykaios body on the floor in a pool of blood - he still couldn’t truly imagine Kastor ordering it. Part of him still pictured returning home to Ios and finding his father alive, finding that it had all been a mistake or   a dream. He looked down at the heavy cuff on his wrist. Not a dream. “Of course I’m ready.” 

“You’re a terrible liar. Tell me what happened last night.” 

“What?” Startled, Damen looked up. 

Laurent was leaning against the table with studied nonchalance but there was tension in his shoulders and around his eyes. “Last night. Something happened.” His arms were crossed casually enough but Damen had come to recognize that as a defensive gesture. 

“Nothing happened.” 

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “Something has been bothering you all day. Tell me.” 

“We left the feast. I helped you to bed. We slept.”

“Is that all?”

Damen’s heart thumped beneath his ribs. “What do you remember?”

“Mostly being very sick.” Laurent made a face. “I didn’t... say anything?”

_ You called me uncle. _ He couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t face Laurent if he did. Damen swallowed. “You said you didn’t hate me.”

Laurent flushed and looked away abruptly. Damen’s chest ached. There was a lump in his throat.

“Laurent...” he began.

“Don’t.” Laurent’s jaw was set, eyes glittering colorlessly in the bright noon light. He pushed away from the table, rolling his shoulders a little. 

Damen stood helplessly, hands open at his sides. His ribs felt tight. “I…” 

Laurent turned toward him sharply, cutting him off with a glare. “Find a better use for your mouth.”

Damen hesitated. Last time he had touched Laurent, he had stumbled on something painful that he hadn't known was there. It had been a week, and his own exact words had flown from his head in the shock of Laurent’s reaction. His stomach turned at the thought of what he might have unwittingly trampled upon. 

Laurent was watching him, something sharp, not quite hostile in his face. His eyes flickered as the moment stretched, and the corners of his mouth turned down. He shrugged his good shoulder in a dismissal. “Or if you don't want,” he began.

“I want,” Damen said quickly. He stepped forward, feeling as if he were wading through water, slow and heavy. His heart was beating fast as he tipped Laurent’s chin up with two fingers and kissed him. Despite his odd mood, Laurent opened for him sweetly as always. He remembered how shocked Laurent had been by gentle kisses the first time they had made love, and Damen felt as if something with claws was trying to tear its way out of his chest. Laurent didn’t hate him, and he loved to be kissed. He cupped Laurent’s face in his hands, kissing as tenderly as he knew how, feeling Laurent’s shoulders slowly unwinding, his body relaxing into Damen’s. 

Gently Damen mouthed down Laurent’s chin, nuzzling under his jaw, and feeling more than hearing the huff of breath that he let out - amusement, surprise, or arousal, Damen wasn’t sure. He let his lips trail over Laurent’s pulse, to the laces at his collar. Laurent lifted a hand, fingertips brushing against Damen’s lips, and began to tug at the knots. Damen licked Laurent’s thumb, and felt Laurent’s breath hitch again. 

The neck of the jacket parted, revealing hot, tender skin underneath. Damen pressed his mouth into the hollow of Laurent’s collar bones, tasting the faint salt of his skin. Laurent shivered slightly, and Damen felt his whole body respond. 

Together they peeled Laurent out of his jacket. Kneeling, Damen dragged his mouth down Laurent’s chest, letting his teeth barely graze over one tight nipple through his shirt, and feeling Laurent suck in a breath. Gentle touches always undid Laurent more than firm ones. Damen could feel the tendril of gruesome speculation at the back of his mind, cool and slimy, like the tickle of swimming above seaweed. 

Tugging on the laces of his trousers, Damen freed Laurent’s cock and closed his lips around the swollen, velvety head. He remembered Laurent’s declaration the first time he had done this -  _ I won’t do that for you. You want me to suck your cock? I’m not going to _ . It had seemed so simple to Damen - all he wanted in return for sucking cock was the joy of his partner’s pleasure, and even that was difficult for Laurent to give. He remembered his own bewilderment with a rush of shame. Squeezing his eyes shut, Damen concentrated on the tiny signs of Laurent’s arousal, that even his iron will couldn’t contain; the tense muscles of his belly, the minute twitching of his hips, his uneven breath, enjoying the slight bitter taste as his cock leaked in Damen’s mouth. 

When Laurent was panting, thighs straining under Damen’s hands, Damen let his cock slide out to slap wetly against Laurent’s belly, and eased Laurent backward until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Damen tugged Laurent’s trousers further down his legs, nosing past his balls and swiping his tongue at the sensitive skin behind them. Laurent tensed, drawing in an audible breath. “Are you...” 

He sounded young and uncertain - the tone made Damen stop abruptly. “Is this…” 

They stared at one another, and then Laurent let his head fall back on the pillow and said, “Don’t  _ stop _ .”

Urging Laurent to draw his knees up, Damen pressed his mouth behind Laurent’s balls, and Laurent gasped aloud, his hole twitching against Damen’s tongue. Digging his fingers into the soft flesh of his ass, Damen spread him wider, licking steadily. When Damen pressed the tip of his tongue inside, Laurent actually cried out, a muffled, shocked sound. Damen worked one finger in alongside his tongue, and Laurent arched up. Laurent was rolling his hips up against Damen’s face, hands curled into the sheets. Damen crooked his finger and Laurent panted, “Put your cock in me.” 

Damen lifted his head. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Laurent repeated, picking his head up off the pillow to glare at him. “Of course I’m sure.”

Damen worked him open on his fingers slowly, hand dripping oil, watching Laurent’s face. He took Damen’s thick fingers easily, sighing a little as his body relaxed. With a sick roll of his stomach he imagined the Regent touching Laurent like this, and pushed that thought violently away. Pressing his face against Laurent’s thigh, he breathed in deeply, trying to focus on the familiar smell of his skin, the soft sounds he made, the hot clench of his hole around Damen’s fingers.

“Enough. Fuck me already.” Damen made a sound of protest, and continued stretching him. Laurent squirmed and swore impatiently. “Come on. Before we both expire of old age.”

Sitting up, Damen edged his knees under Laurent’s thighs. Cock pressed against the slick furl of Laurent’s hole, he hesitated. “Is this okay?”

Laurent propped himself up on one elbow and glared incredulously at him. “Do you need a written invitation? Should I got get my formal seal? What part of  _ fuck me _ do you not - ”

He broke off as Damen pressed into him – the tiny, choked gasp made Damen’s cock throb and sent a shudder of horror through him at once. It was such a helpless, pained noise. But Laurent was pushing back against him deliberately, taking him deeper. Damen was paralyzed, one hand on Laurent’s hip. He wanted to thrust hard into Laurent, but was suddenly afraid to – his heart was pounding. Laurent pushed himself back on his cock and made a noise of frustration. “Are you planning to do any of the work?” he asked.

Swallowing, Damen curled his fingers on Laurent’s hip bones and thrust into him, pushing away his doubts. He fucked Laurent as slowly as he could, head bent so his curls brushed Laurent’s cheek. With his free hand, he stroked Laurent’s cock until Laurent was making small sounds as each thrust rocked him into Damen’s hand, smearing sticky liquid over his fingers.  Laurent whined and shuddered as Damen slid his other hand up his chest to his tug and pinch his nipples.

He made more noise now in bed than he had at first, Damen realized – he thought of the his forced silences when they had first been together, his icy, desperate restraint, the difficulty letting go. Damen found himself talking, whispering words into Laurent’s neck. “It’s just me, I’ve got you, it’s okay. It’s me, Laurent. Look at me.”

Laurent’s eyes fluttered open and he pushed himself up on his elbows, knees spread. Although he did it artlessly, it was a provocative, studied pose, like a slave might take in bed and Damen froze so abruptly that Laurent gasped, “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Nothing. I just. I want to watch you.” 

Laurent rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to retort, then choked as Damen pressed back in. He fucked Laurent slow and steady until he was shivering and sweating beneath him. There was sweat dripping down Damen’s back, his thighs starting to trembled with the strain. “Laurent,” he groaned. 

Laurent made a soft noise and curled against his chest, hips hitching, dragging the leaking head of his cock across Damen’s stomach. A knot of something dark lay under his sternum, as much as Damen tried to push it away. 

“Say my name,” Damen whispered, heart in his throat. Damen ran his hands up and down Laurent’s smooth back, cradling him close. “Please, Laurent, please say it.”

He felt Laurent’s hands tighten on his arms. Laurent’s forehead was pressed against his shoulder. There was a terrible urgency clawing at Damen’s chest. “Laurent, please.”

“Damianos,” Laurent breathed, barely audible, but Damen groaned, an intense shudder running through him. He jerked Laurent’s cock fast and steady until Laurent clenched around him, arching off the bed and making a choked sound. Heart pounding wildly, Damen thrust twice more and then pressed deep as he spilled himself inside Laurent, mind thankfully going blank. 

They collapsed side by side on the bed. Lying warm and heavy, Damen breathed in the familiar smell of Laurent’s skin and sex, softening slowly inside him. His cock slipped out, and he felt the slick trickle of his own come leaking out of Laurent, over their thighs. Laurent made a small noise at the loss, and shifted his hips. Damen was suddenly blindsided by the thought of the Regent holding Laurent like this, spending himself inside him. The warm glow of climax was obliterated in a surge of nausea so strong that Damen actually sat up abruptly before deciding that he didn’t need to run for the basin. 

Laurent made a disgruntled, curious noise and moved to get up as he always did after making love. Another chill jolt went through Damen’s stomach. Someone had taught Laurent to fetch a cloth and a glass of water afterward. “I’ll do it,” he said hastily, pushing himself up from the bed. Laurent was frowning at him. Damen crossed to the washstand and took the opportunity to take three deep breaths, getting a grip on himself. Hands shaking only slightly, he poured two cups, then dipped a cloth in the pitcher and carried all three back to the bed. 

Laurent was watching him with narrowed eyes. “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” he said, taking the cup Damen offered. 

Damen swallowed and then blurted, “What happens if we win?” 

He felt Laurent’s gaze sweep over him. “You’re thinking about my uncle? Now?” 

Damen flushed and stuttered. “N-no. Only. I was just thinking about afterward. When we beat him.” 

Laurent raised an eyebrow, and took the damp cloth from his hands, rolling onto his side to wipe himself clean. “When I beat him, our deal is fulfilled. You ride for Ios with an army. I return to Arles to clean up my own problems.” 

“And the alliance?” 

“What about it?” Laurent didn’t look up. 

“We’ll both be kings. We could still be allies. Vere and Akielos haven’t always been enemies.”

“No,” Laurent said absently, “They were one kingdom once.” Damen’s chest lurched as if the stones of the fort had shifted beneath them. Laurent tossed the damp rag on the floor and stretched out on the bed. 

Damen took a breath, and let it out slowly. “It was.” There was something painful lodged between his ribs. “We already hold the center. Everything from Marlas to Aquitart.”

Laurent gazed at him impassively for a long moment. Pale afternoon light made his skin glow, blue shadows creating the illusion of marble. “What would we do with an empire?” he asked eventually. 

Damen’s heartbeat was rushing in his ears. The answer hung between them, as tangible and fragile as a bubble of sea foam. He opened his mouth before he could think better of it. “Rule it.” 

Laurent stared at him, soft lips slightly parted. His eyes were wide and very blue. “Together?” he said, softly. 

Damen swallowed. 

Laurent sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Get up,” he said roughly. “We’ve got lots to do before tomorrow.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO'S EXCITED FOR THE CONFRONTATION???? :D :D :D 
> 
> Also, I would love some feedback on the knives in this chapter. I struggled with finding the tone of Damen's inner turmoil here, and with weaving it into the narrative in a way that didn't feel too heavy-handed...


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, I wrote [Laurent's POV of the previous chapter here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741057)
> 
> Take a deep breath, everyone, here we go!

In the evening, Damen found himself in Laurent’s rooms again, undressing for bed as Laurent bent over papers on the desk, scribbling by lamp light. His jacket was off, and the gold cuff gleamed on his left arm where the loose sleeve of his shirt slid back. Damen’s heart thudded against his ribs, watching him. 

Laurent glanced up, through the fringe of his hair hanging in his eyes, and said, “Don’t wait up for me.” Damen studied his face, every inch of him gilded gold - his hair, his creamy skin, the cuff on his wrist. He looked calm, composed, in contrast to Damen who had a restless, nervous energy buzzing under his skin. It was a familiar feeling, the night before a battle, compounded by a fear and helplessness at the thought of watching Laurent face his uncle.  

Damen swallowed. “You should get some rest.” 

Laurent made a derisive noise in his throat, and turned a page. Damen crawled between the sheets alone, the cotton cold on his bare skin. He lay awake for a long time, listening to the scratching of the pen’s nib on paper, watching the lamp light flicker on the wall. By the time he drifted off, he was still alone in bed. 

 

Laurent was gone from the room when he woke in the morning, and the other side of the bed was only rumpled where Damen had pulled at the sheets in his sleep. If Laurent had slept, it hadn’t been in bed, Damen realized with a pulse of worry and resignation in his gut. 

The fort was in a quiet uproar of preparation, swarming with soldiers and servants. Damen eventually found Laurent in the great hall, amid a hubbub of people moving tables, and chairs. Makedon was standing at Laurent’s shoulder, speaking quietly to him. He bowed as Damen approached and Laurent nodded briskly, eyes flicking over him and then away. 

After Laurent finished his instructions about the troops and Makedon walked away, Damen asked, “Are you ready?” 

Laurent didn’t answer immediately. “It’ll be here, in the hall.” 

“A public game,” Damen said. 

“Yes.” 

“Where do you need me?” 

At that, Laurent glanced at him. “At the door. Shut it behind them when they come. No one enters or leaves.” 

Damen nodded, looking over at the heavy main doors with their thick bolt. 

“And Damen?” 

Damen felt his heart flip. He had never heard Laurent call him by his short name before. “Yes?” 

“Follow my lead.” 

 

A cry went up on the battlements in late morning - a party of riders approaching the fort. “Open the gates,” Laurent snapped. Nikandros was barking orders to the soldiers. 

The hall was crowded with people standing around the walls - Veretians and Akielons, nobles, commoners, and soldiers. The tables had been moved, leaving an open space in the center before the twin thrones, and half a dozen chairs had been set up facing the space and the thrones. Damen saw Lazar, Jord, Pallas, Huet, and dozens of other loyal soldiers, all armed. Nikandros and Makedon stood close behind the thrones. The family de Fortaine was there also, Rueven grim-faced, his father looking pale and anxious, eyes and cheeks still sunken. Damen’s heart was beating fast. As battle preparations went, it was as perfect as could be hoped, but one thing Damen knew about battle was that it never went as expected. 

Standing behind the door, Damen heard the approach of footsteps and the cultured tones of the Regent’s voice, speaking to the steward. “Please, take us to him right away. We’ve been terribly worried.” 

“Right this way,” the steward said, leading them through the doorway into the great hall. The small party halted abruptly. There was the Regent, the other four members of the council, and a handful of soldiers. Stepping forward, Damen pushed the heavy doors closed, and lowered the bolt with a thud. The Regent looked around sharply. He wore traveling clothes, and had a short sword strapped to his belt. His face flickered when he saw Damen, before he smoothed it back into impassivity. 

Laurent stepped forward. He stood with his chin high and his shoulders squared, blue jacket laced tightly from his throat to his wrists, not a glint of gold on him except his buttons and his bright hair. “Welcome to Fortaine, uncle,” he said, and Damen’s stomach turned over. 

“Laurent,” the Regent said, voice heavy and disapproving. “We heard you were terribly wounded.”

“I was injured, yes,” Laurent said lightly. “But then, border patrol is a dangerous duty when a war is brewing. Please, be seated.” He gestured to the row of chairs set up in a row before the twin thrones, facing the open space in front of him. Reluctantly, the councilors one by one took their seats. 

The Regent remained standing, face thunderous. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm. “I am glad to see you recovered, nephew. From Guion’s report I feared to arrive too late.” He cut his eyes sideways to where Guion stood with his wife and family, and Damen saw Guion flinch. 

“Quite recovered, thank you. I’m glad you are all here,” he continued. “I can announce to all of you that I have formalized an alliance with Damianos of Akielos, and solved the small problem of an impending war between our nations.” He lifted a hand and Damen stepped forward, into the cleared space before the thrones. He was facing Laurent with the Regent between them. 

“Nephew,” the Regent said, shaking his head. “Have you learned nothing? Akielons are untrustworthy. Has the massacre at Breteau already slipped your mind?” 

An uneasy murmur ran among the Veretians. Damen felt his fists clench at the memory of the ravished town. “Not at all, uncle,” Laurent said smoothly. “I dealt with the issue in your absence. The culprits have been apprehended and are at this moment prisoners at Ravenel. King Damianos and I have resolved our differences and formed a pact for the mutual benefit of our nations.” 

“Laurent. Your judgment as ever is flawed.” He turned to the council, waving an arm. “My nephew has been deceived. You all who have been with me in Ios know the crimes of this so-called prince Damianos.”

Damen gritted his teeth. “And what crimes am I accused of there?”

“Why, of patricide. You killed your father before you fled to Vere to begin this ill-fated alliance with my nephew.” Damen drew a shuddering breath, fists clenching, forcing himself to stay calm. 

“That’s not true, and every Akielon in this room knows it.” Laurent gave him a tiny nod. 

“I’m afraid other witnesses would say otherwise,” the Regent said. “I have reliable reports from the ambassador to Akielos. Lord Guion?” 

Lord Guion’s eyes flickered from Laurent to his uncle and back, shoulders hunched defensively. There was a long silence, and then Guion said, voice cracking in the middle, “It is true.” 

Damen breathed out, feeling a cold sinking in his chest. Rueven stood with his jaw clenched, face stony; Loyse was white-faced beside him. Laurent’s expression didn’t change at all. 

Guion continued, “I discovered the plot while I was ambassador to Akielos. It is to my shame that I could not prevent the death of King Theomedes. Damianos is a traitor to his own crown, and has corrupted Prince Laurent into treason against Vere.” One of the other councilors was nodding. 

Damen took two steps forward. “That is a  _ lie _ ,” he growled, hand curling around the pommel of his sword. Laurent’s hand caught at the back of his chiton, forcing him to halt, or else to yank the fabric off him and walk forward naked. 

“We all agree that the family de Fortaine is of an honorable and trustworthy legacy?” Laurent said, voice clear and cutting. 

“Why yes, nephew,” the Regent said. “So you understand why I would trust the word of one of our oldest families over the lies of a foreign enemy.” 

“Then the council will be interested to hear the testimony of another of the de Fortaine family. Indeed, one who was born to the name, rather than married.” He lifted a hand. “Lady Loyse, daughter of the late Lord Albaric de Fortaine.” 

Loyse stepped forward in a swish of dark skirts, head high. “I have a story to tell about my son Aimeric,” she said, voice clear. “And how he died.” 

“Loyse, what are you doing?” snapped Guion. He was pale, temples shining with sweat. His wife ignored him. 

“In the year after Marlas, the Regent visited my family in Fortaine,’ said Loyse. ‘And my husband, who is ambitious, gave him leave to enter the bedroom of our youngest son.’

“Loyse, stop this now,” he hissed, eyes darting around the room. The hall was dead silent. Damen saw several of the council members shift uncomfortably in their seats. One woman he recognized from Aimeric’s vigil - an aunt or older cousin - had clapped her hands over her mouth. Rueven’s face was white, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“It was a gentleman’s agreement,” Loyse continued. “The Regent could indulge himself in relaxed privacy at our home, and my husband was rewarded with lands and a position of greater prominence at court. He was made Ambassador to Akielos, and he became the intermediary between the Regent and the Regent’s conspirator, Kastor.”

“You all who were his family and friends, should know that he killed himself,” Loyse said, raising her voice. She was looking not at the Regent but around at the gathered crowd, some of whom were of Fortaine. “I will never forgive myself for not doing more to protect him.” There were tears standing out in her eyes but her voice was steady. “I stood by once and let my husband and the Regent use my son as a piece of a game, but I won’t stand by again to watch them continue to lie. The plot they embroiled Aimeric in until his only way out was death was a plot kill King Theomedes and to take his country.”

An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd. Damen looked at the Council. Herode and Chelaut wore expressions of repressed distaste, even revulsion. Damen saw suddenly that the obscene youth of the Regent’s lovers had always been repellent to these men, and the idea that the son of a councilor had been used in this way was disturbing to them beyond measure.

The Regent puffed up his chest, turning to the council. “Come now. She is just an upset mother. You would believe the word of an emotional woman? She has created a fantasy.”

“All the proof is there in my husband’s correspondence. He brokered the deal between the Regent and Kastor, who assassinated his own father and exiled his brother, in exchange for the Veretian troops he needed to take Ios.”

“Someone take her away,” the Regent barked. The half dozen guards who had entered with the council began to move, but the Akielon and Veretian soldiers who had quietly approached behind them were already blocking their way, hands on their weapons. The Regent’s men halted. 

Guion was speaking low and urgent, looking like a trapped rat. “She’s not a traitor. She’s just confused. She’s been deceived, and coached, she’s been upset since Aimeric died. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“Be careful, Uncle,” Laurent said. “Lest your allies see how easily you cast someone aside. If you accuse Lady Loyse of treason, will Lord Guion stand by to watch you execute her?” His voice was crystal clear, ringing through the hall. Looking at Guion he gave a small, formal nod. Guion’s face was white. “Didn’t I warn you,” he continued in a silky voice, “That it is very careless to let my uncle close to your family?” With a lurch in his stomach, Damen remembered Laurent outside Guion’s cell –  _ did you truly think you could sell your son into the Regent’s clutches and get him back alive? _

“This is immaterial,” the Regent snapped. “The death of a foreign king has no weight here in our nation. It is not a crime against Vere.”

“No, indeed not,” Laurent said calmly. “Prince Damianos, I have a gift for you, to celebrate our alliance.” His face was stony but there was something alive and dangerous in his eyes. “Here is the man who ordered your father’s death. He is yours.”

A gasp ran round the room. “Seize my nephew!” the Regent roared. The Regent’s soldiers were no cowards- they surged forward, drawing their weapons, but there were three of Makedon and Laurent’s men to every one of them. Steel clanged as blades crossed. One man screamed and fell, clutching at his leg. “Drop your weapons!” a voice yelled in Akielon, and then again in Veretian. “Surrender!” A sword clattered to the ground. 

It was over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the Regent’s men dropped his weapon, Lazar’s blade at his throat, and the room fell still. In the silence, someone whimpered in pain. 

Damen scanned the room quickly, blood thrumming with the rush of a fight, although his own sword was still sheathed. Lazar was grinning. There was a soldier standing behind each of the council members, who were white-faced and shaken, and the Regent’s guards were all surrounded by loyal soldiers. Two of them were on the ground, blood on the flagstones around them, and Damen saw Paschal pushing his way through the crowd with his physician’s bag. 

The Regent stood in the center of a small empty circle, Makedon’s men surrounding him at a moderate distance, remembering their orders - laying a hand on an enemy prince could be an act of war. The Regent turned to Damen, holding out one hand in a gesture of placation, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. Damen shifted his weight slightly and felt his own blade heavy against his hip. 

“Damianos… you’re making a mistake with your allegiance. My nephew is unstable, not to be trusted.” 

“Laurent is a good man who will be a great king,” Damen said tightly, echoing a protest he had once made to Nikandros, “and I am proud to stand at his side as a friend and ally.” 

“He’s a treacherous whore,” the Regent snapped. “I know he’s good at sucking cock, but don’t let that blind you.” 

Over the Regent’s shoulder, he could see Laurent stiffen, face going white and then blazing red. There was a stir from the crowd. In one glance Damen saw the faces around them – confusion, disbelief, revulsion.

Damen himself felt almost relieved. The squirming, sick horror of doubt that had been lodged in his stomach for the last two days was gone, replaced by a clean, white rage.

“Laurent,” Damen said hoarsely. “I have a gift for you also.”

The look Laurent gave him for a split second was almost bewildered; a shattered-open, hopeless look. Then with a twitch of his face, the impervious stone mask was in place, and Damen thought with a painful lurch in his chest – _ a kingdom or this? _

Laurent swallowed, and said in a voice that shook only a little, “What is it?”

“A throne.” Drawing his sword from its sheath with a ringing sound, Damen drove the blade cleanly through the Regent’s chest, between the ribs and through the heart, before anyone else had time to move.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Hey your majesty,” Lazar called. “The Prince wants to see you.”

Damen looked up sharply from tightening the girth strap on his saddle, heart leaping into his throat. His horse felt his sudden tension and shifted uneasily. “He does?”

It was a bright afternoon, the stable yard crowded with soldiers and horses, making the final preparations to depart Fortaine. Lazar jerked his head toward the castle.

Passing the reins of his horse to a stable hand, Damen started across the courtyard.

“Damen?” Nikandros called after him.

“I won’t be long,” Damen called, ignoring Nikandros’ frown.

He climbed the stairs to Laurent’s room, heart pounding. With a nod to Jord, who was standing guard, Damen knocked.

“Come,” Laurent called. He stepped inside.

Laurent was standing at the window, bathed in sunlight, the white curtains billowing around him. The light caught his high cheekbones and narrow nose, shining in his hair. A glint of gold was barely visible on his wrist beneath the laces of his jacket. Damen closed the door softly behind him. He hadn’t seen Laurent alone since Damen had killed his uncle.

After Damen had driven his sword there the Regent’s chest, there had been a long, shocked moment of stillness in the hall, and then uproar.

The council members had all jumped to their feet, shouting. Soldiers grabbed their weapons. The room was packed with Akielons and Veretians united by only a tenuous truce. The Veretians, despite their loyalty to Laurent, were shaken by seeing a member of the royal family slaughtered by a foreigner. Blood spread on the polished flagstones as the Regent choked and convulsed in his death throes. Damen braced his foot on the man’s chest, and yanked his sword out, the blade dripping. Somewhere in the crowd a woman screamed. A furious hiss ran around the room, in Veretian mouths –  _ prince-killer. _

Nikandros was barking orders, unheard in the din. Ruevan had grabbed his father’s arm, to restrain him or hold him up. Makedon had his sword in hand. Damen could hear Lazar swearing behind him. The room had been moments away from outright war.

In the midst of the chaos Laurent had stood, white faced and frozen, staring at his uncle on ground and at Damen. Damen had stared back, heart pounding in his ears, gripping his sword tightly, the pommel slick with blood. 

There was a crash of metal as two soldiers in the back of the room crossed blades. Their companions were yelling, swearing, squaring off with one another. Civilians were backing away. 

Visibly drawing himself together, Laurent opened his mouth, calling out for order in Veretian, but his words were lost in the din. 

Rueven picked up a ceramic pitcher from a side table and smashed it on the floor. In the shocked lull that followed, he bellowed, “Silence!” and the room had subsided somewhat. 

“You all will hold your peace,” Laurent had grated out, voice hoarse and strained. His fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white, shoulders tense. He cleared his throat and said somewhat more steadily. “My uncle has been justly served for his crimes against Akielos. There will be no more bloodshed here.” 

The councilors looked shaken, but Audin, red-faced, had snapped, “What your uncle said about you was true.” 

Laurent had gone chalk-pale again, lips thin and bloodless, but Audin continued, “You would sell your own family to the Akielons. No alliance justifies the murder in cold blood of Veretian royalty.” There was a hostile murmur of assent from the Veretians around the room. Makedon gave a warning growl. Nikandros looked as if he were praying for patience. 

And then Laurent had lifted his chin, looked Audin in the eye, and pulled a letter out of his jacket. 

After that it had all ended quickly. The letter had been read out to cries of disbelief and horror from the Veretians. A couple of people had begun to cry. The councilors had all been white-faced and shaken. Laurent had dealt with them all brusquely and then turned his back on his uncle’s body and stalked out alone. 

That evening, Damen had gone to Laurent’s rooms, but Huet had stopped him in the hall. “The Prince is resting,” he said, stone-faced, although there was light under the door. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Laurent had spent the next two days meeting privately with everyone except Damen. Each of the councilors emerged chastised and docile. Old Herode had tears in his eyes. Laurent had also met with Loyse and Rueven, Guion conspicuously absent, as well as Nikandros and Makedon.

The council members were leaving for Arles, with a contingent of Laurent’s soldiers, ostensibly as an honor guard. Damen and his men were leaving for Ios. The previous night at dinner, he and Laurent had sat side by side on their twin thrones, cementing the alliance, but Laurent had spoken no more than a handful of words directly to him, and avoided Damen’s attempts to catch his eye.

As preparations for the Akielons’ departure had neared completion, Damen had resigned himself, with a dull ache under his breastbone, to leaving without speaking privately to Laurent again.

“You’re ready?” Laurent asked, not looking over.

Damen crossed to stand beside him at with window, looking down at the bustling courtyard. “We’re ready.”

Makedon had already gone ahead with his men to meet the kyros of Sicyon and begin the work of gathering an army. Three hundred Veretian soldiers were preparing to ride south with the rest of the Akielon force under Damen and Nikandros; payment from Laurent for their support at Fortaine.

Damen cleared his throat. “So this is it. It’s over.” 

“Yes.” 

“It worked,” he continued tentatively. Laurent still wasn’t looking at him. “Your plan.” 

Laurent huffed out a breath. “Something like that.”

“Will you have trouble back in Arles? With the council?”

“Not as much as you are going to have with your brother. Be careful.” 

Damen rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” 

That made Laurent shoot him a glance. “Don’t meet with Kastor or his mistress without Nikandros or Makedon,” he continued as if Damen hadn’t spoken. “When you beat him, don’t be too lenient. Listen to Nikandros and stay on your guard. Cornered men are dangerous.”

Damen pressed his lips together, feeling something clench in his gut. “He’s my brother.” 

For a long moment Laurent looked at him, gaze steady and unreadable, and then he cut his eyes away. “You say that like it means something.” 

Swallowing the urge to say,  _ it does _ , Damen ran a hand absently along the stone sill of the window casement. “I’ll be careful,” he said instead. 

“Good.” 

There was a pause. “I’ll write to you,” Damen said. “When I win.” 

“Of course.” Laurent was staring out the window again. “There will be matters of state to discuss.” 

“Yes. Matters of state.” Damen picked at a flake of loose mortar on the window sill. 

He knew he should take his leave. All the preparations were ready. The men in the courtyard were waiting for him. From his vantage, Damen could see Nikandros, mounted, shifting restlessly on his horse. He didn’t move. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Damen could feel the gold cuff, heavy on his wrist.

“Why did you stay?” Laurent said abruptly.

“Stay?” Laurent didn’t respond, and after a moment, Damen said, “You know why.”

“Do I?” He was looking out the window still, eyes blue and glittering in the afternoon light.

Damen bit his lip. “Because of you.”

There was a heavy silence, full of the sounds of soldiers and horses drifting up from below, and then Laurent said, dry as dust, “No wonder Nikandros hates me.”

Startled, Damen snorted. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just protective.”

“He’s right to be. You’re a terrible judge of character.” There was an edge of humor in Laurent’s voice. 

“I am not!”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “You’re here with me. It’s not exactly a point in your favor.”

“Is that so?” Damen turned so that he was facing Laurent and slouched against the window sill. The sun was warm on his back. “Are you such a terrible influence?”

“Most people would say so.” The barest hint of a smile curved the corner of his mouth.

“They’re wrong,” Damen shrugged. 

Laurent went still - his expression was one Damen had never seen before; wary but not closed off and icy the way Laurent normally became when he was uncertain. “Even with everything you know about me?” he said softly. 

Damen felt his stomach roll, even as something tender unfurled in his chest. “Laurent…” He reached out a hand. When Laurent didn’t move away, Damen let it rest on his good shoulder. 

“I think you are loyal,” he said softly. Laurent made a small noise as Damen slid his hand slowly to the back of Laurent’s neck, feeling the warm skin above his collar and the silky brush of his hair. “Kind,” Damen continued, throat tight with emotion. “Thoughtful. Generous.” He tugged lightly with his hand and Laurent took a half-step forward so that he was standing between Damen’s knees. Damen swallowed. “Patient. Honorable.”

“Stop,” Laurent whispered, voice breaking.

Damen stopped, one hand still on Laurent’s neck, lightly enough that he could easily pull away. Laurent didn’t move. His cheeks were flushed, shoulders tense. “Laurent…” Damen whispered. 

Laurent made a small sound, buried both hands in Damen’s hair and kissed him. 

Something bright and warm was expanding under Damen’s breastbone, making his ribs feel tight. Laurent’s mouth was hot and intent, lips parted. The Regent was dead and Laurent was kissing him. Damen groaned, surging up toward him, tipping his head back and wrapping his arms around Laurent’s waist to drag him closer. 

He could feel Laurent’s cock through his pants, pressing against his stomach, and felt himself growing hard also. Laurent’s fingers dug into his scalp and he shivered. 

They were leaning together against the wall at the side of the window, Damen half-sitting on the sill - anyone looking up from the courtyard could see them. Damen broke the kiss and panted, “I’ve got to… I should go. Everyone’s waiting. Nikandros…” 

“Nikandros isn’t the king,” Laurent said, and kissed him again, straddling his thighs so he was half standing over Damen, half sitting in his lap. Damen’s chiton slid up, brushing against the sensitive head of his cock as Laurent lifted the fabric. He moaned as Laurent closed a hand around him, and fumbled clumsily at the laces of Laurent’s trousers. 

Laurent batted Damen away and unlaced himself one-handed, still stroking Damen steadily. Tipping his head forward against Laurent’s shoulder, Damen watched his quick, nimble fingers between them as Laurent pulled out his cock and circled them both together in his hands. 

The head of Laurent’s cock dragged against his, sending hot shivers through Damen. He could feel the slick wetness between them were Laurent’s cock was leaking. Damen rocked against him, clutching at Laurent’s ass to draw him closer, and leaned in blindly to kiss him. He tasted familiar. “Laurent,” he mumbled against his lips. “Laurent.” 

“Damianos,” Laurent sighed, and Damen groaned, bucking up against him. They rutted together into Laurent’s hands until he felt Laurent’s mouth go slack with pleasure and his body stiffen. With a soft grunt, Laurent came between them, messily, into his hand and against Damen’s cock, and the feel of it pushed Damen over the edge too. 

After a long moment, Laurent made a displeased noise in his throat and lifted his dripping hands, fingers curled fastidiously to contain their sticky contents without spilling any on their clothes. Nose wrinkled, he began to get up, pulling away from Damen’s embrace.  

“Wait.” Damen caught his wrist, lifting his hand to his lips. Laurent’s eyes widened as Damen sucked his fingers one by one into his mouth, licking them clean. He held Laurent’s gaze, feeling his spent cock twitch a little at the eroticism of the gesture and the surprise on Laurent’s face. 

“That’s filthy,” Laurent said, voice a little unsteady. 

Damen hummed around his fingers, swallowing. “Do you mind?” 

“...no.” 

“Good.” Damen pressed a kiss to the inside of Laurent’s wrist, where the edge of the cuff rode just above his pulse. The metal was warm and hard against his lips; Laurent’s skin delicate and silky. Laurent sighed, and leaned his weight on Damen, curling his arms around Damen’s shoulders. 

Damen buried his nose in the crook of Laurent’s neck, damp with sweat, breathing in the familiar smell of him.  _ A kingdom or this _ , he thought, chest aching. “I wish I could stay,” he mumbled. He felt Laurent suck in a deep breath.  

“Our alliance is over,” Laurent said, in a strange distant voice. “Our deal is fulfilled. Until my uncle was dead. That’s what we agreed.”  

Damen felt a sharp twisting in his chest. “I know. I know. I’m going home. To Ios. But I wish…” He let out a shaky laugh. “You said it yourself. They were one kingdom once.” 

Laurent pulled away, tucking his soft cock back into his trousers, and tugging the laces tight. His absence made Damen feel cold, sweat and semen drying unpleasantly on his skin. “Empires are always more trouble than they’re worth,” he said, looking away. 

There was a lump in Damen’s throat. He tugged his chiton down, using the hem to wipe himself clean.  

“Go home to Ios,” Laurent said, in a soft, almost sing-song voice. “Win back your throne. I’ll settle my affairs in Vere,” he continued, sunlight washing his face in gold and cream. “And in a few months, it will be only prudent and sensible for the kings of Akielos and Vere to meet, to congratulate each other. And discuss their new alliance.” 

Damen froze, heart pounding. “A new alliance,” he repeated, barely daring to hope. 

Laurent looked at him and raised his eyebrows. His hair was rumpled, and the cuff shone. “If Exalted is amenable?”  

A warm, buoyant feeling was pouring into his chest like sunlight. “I am,” he breathed. 

Laurent smiled, small and genuine. “Good. We’ll start with an alliance.” He curled his fingers around Damen’s wrist, their cuffs chiming together and gleaming in the sun. “All lasting empires do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I am finished.   
> If you want to reblog the fic on tumblr you can [find the link here. ](https://seas-of-ios.tumblr.com/post/180774675654/the-center-gambit-stillwaterseas-phoenixflight)  
> This fic was started in July, before I had met any friends in the fandom, and the process of writing and sharing it with all of you has been incredibly rewarding. You all are a joy to write for - THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who commented, screamed at me, and told me I was stressing you out. <3 <3 <3 You kept me writing every week.   
> An extra huge thank you to all the folks who have looked this over and beta'd as I've written including [Nini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniblack/pseuds/niniblack) and [Elliott](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/badaltin), but ESPECIALLY thanks to [Elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy). This fic would not be finished without her, my muse and mutual fic wrangler. I can't count the number of times I got completely stuck, said "ELLE HELP ME" and followed her advice to get unstuck. Also for general screaming, encouragement, cheerleading, and support of all kinds. So much love to you, Elle. Seriously. Thank you. <3   
> My heart is so full at finishing this story.   
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!  
> Come scream with me on tumblr [@stillwaterseas](http://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/)  
> UPDATE I caved and made a Capri side blog [@seas-of-ios](https://seas-of-ios.tumblr.com/)


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